The Dark Companion
by Speaker-to-Customers
Summary: Cierre, Ranger of Faerûn, is transported to Middle Earth and meets Aragorn at Amon Hen. She wins a place in the Fellowship and tries to help; unfortunately she's a Drow and her black skin inspires fear and hatred in everyone they meet.
1. Out of the blue, and into the black

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all the characters from _The Lord of the Rings_ were created by J. R. R. Tolkien and are the property of the Tolkien Estate. Cierre was created by Ed Greenwood and Jason Carl in the _Dungeons & Dragons: Forgotten Realms_ game accessory '_The Silver Marches_'.

**Chapter One: Out of the blue, and into the black**

If there had been any feasible alternative Cierre would never have jumped into the portal. Halaster had created it, after all, and the Wizard of Undermountain was so mad that conventions of hatters would have gathered to point at him, and to jeer, if such behaviour wouldn't immediately have resulted in their spectacular and messy deaths. The portal could lead absolutely anywhere; another world, one of the Nine Hells, Kara-tur, the bottom of the sea, or the room next door. Cierre calculated her chance of surviving the portal at no better than fifty per cent.

That, however, was a lot better than her chances of surviving combat with the two dozen Drow warriors who were pursuing her. At least not in this warren of narrow, twisting, tunnels where the superior range of her Uthgardt bow over their crossbows was irrelevant. They were all well-armed and equipped, there were mages and priestesses amongst their number, and two of them were lethal assassins from the Red Sisters society. She would slay some of them before they took her down, at least four or five and with luck perhaps as many as ten, but then they'd kill her for sure.

They had responded to her attempts to communicate only with volleys of crossbow quarrels. Cierre had no idea why they had seemed so fanatically determined to kill a fellow Drow right from the start, when she'd never been within a hundred miles of Waterdeep before; unless, of course, they thought she was an Eilistraee worshipper. The Promenade of Eilistraee lay somewhere below Undermountain, after all – in fact, Cierre suddenly realised, they might have mistaken her for Qilué Veladorn. Or else the Drow were behind the incursions from Undermountain that were currently plaguing Waterdeep, and which Cierre had been hired to investigate, and they wanted her dead because she was a threat to their plan. And after she'd wiped out the first group she had encountered, and taken a powerful magic sword and set of armour from the patrol leader, they would be seeking revenge in addition to their original reason for the attack.

Not that their motives were relevant right now. The important thing was that they were trying to kill her and Cierre knew that if she let them get close they would succeed. They had driven her into a dead-end and the portal, perilous as it might be, was the only escape route she had. If only she hadn't been tempted by the one hundred thousand gold pieces reward… Cierre gritted her teeth and, as the leading elements of the Drow burst into the chamber, she rushed for the portal and plunged through.

She emerged into daylight. She blinked and hurriedly brought up a hand to shield her face from the light. Her broad-brimmed hat was in her pack, and not easily accessible, but after fifteen years on the surface she had grown accustomed to the light of day and, once her eyes adjusted, she would not be too badly affected. The Drow pursuing her, however, would be at a distinct disadvantage. Cierre grinned and nocked an arrow to her bowstring.

She scanned her surroundings and saw that she stood in a wide, flat, circle of paved stone flags. A crumbling battlement surrounded the circle and moss grew in the cracks between the paving stones. In the centre of the circle stood a high seat, set upon four carved stone pillars, reached by a flight of steps. There was no sign, from this side, of any portal. Something on the ground caught her eye and she bent to examine it.

Half of a Drow crossbow bolt, sheared off cleanly just forward of where the flights should have been, lay on the stones. The portal must have been single-use, closing after one traveller had entered, and it had shut off while the quarrel was in transit through the portal. No-one was going to be following her. The down side was that there was unlikely to be any way to return; then again, Cierre wasn't particularly enthusiastic about going back to Undermountain any time soon. She relaxed, lowered her bow, and set about trying to work out where the portal had deposited her.

With her hat retrieved from her pack and set upon her head, so that her face and eyes were shielded from the daylight, she was able to make a better evaluation of her surroundings. Her first impression had been that this area was little used; further examination changed that to 'completely abandoned'. There wasn't just moss between the flagstones; there was grass, and weeds, and even an occasional sapling bursting through where the cracks were at their widest. The carvings on the stone seat, which reminded her of Lord Nasher's throne in Neverwinter, had eroded away until it was impossible to tell what they had once represented. This was a ruin perhaps as old, or older, than the Illefarn and Netherese ruins she had seen sometimes around Neverwinter and the Savage Frontier.

She went to the crumbling walls and looked over. On the other side was a downward slope obscured by a light growth of rowan trees. A glint in the distance, sunlight on water, pointed to the presence of a river or lake. Far off she could make out the shapes of mountains on the horizon. A circuit of the courtyard revealed that the downward slope was on all sides; the courtyard, therefore, stood at the top of a hill. The raised chair would make a good vantage point from which to scan her surroundings but it would place her into the view of anyone in the trees lower down the hill. She decided not to risk that until she had carried out a reconnaissance on foot.

Beyond a gap in the wall, where stone fragments on the flagstones indicated that an archway had once stood but had collapsed, was what remained of a staircase leading down the hill. Rainwater had carved channels through some of the steps, tree roots had split others, and in places deposits of soil overgrown with grass hid the stairs altogether. She followed the line of the staircase anyway, moving stealthily, and with her bow poised ready for action.

When she came to a point where a small stream crossed the path, pouring over one of the stairs in a miniature waterfall and dampening the surrounding earth, she stepped over it taking extreme care not to leave any footprints either in the soil or on the wet stone. She did not want to leave any signs of her presence until she had some idea of where she was and whether the locals were friends or foes. Of course, as a Drow in exile on the surface world, friends for her were few and far between and foes were everywhere.

As she crossed she noticed that someone before her had not been so careful. There were traces of footprints, just one pair, going in both directions. The imprints of toes showed up, proving that the feet had been bare, and the prints were smaller than a human's. A Halfling. That was an encouraging sign; the _Sakphen_ tended to be peaceful and were unlikely to attack her without provocation.

Shortly after she had crossed the little stream she heard the sound of running feet. Quickly she left the path and sought concealment among the trees. The enchanted leather armour she had taken from a dead Drow, the suit named Greenleaf that had been specially designed for Rangers, bore charms to help the wearer blend into her surroundings. As did her Cloak of Elvenkind; the two items in conjunction were almost as effective, in woodlands, as an Invisibility spell. She crouched behind a tree trunk, keeping perfectly still, and watched as a man ran past.

He was human, fairly tall, with longish dark hair and a short beard. His clothes were drab and travel-stained, he wore a bastard sword at his left hip, and a bow and quiver were slung at his back. His cloak bore a marked resemblance to the one Cierre was wearing. 'A Ranger', she deduced. She continued to watch him as he stopped at the stream and examined the ground. It was obvious that he had found the footprints; he glanced back the way he had come, hesitated, and then shook his head and continued his progress up the hill.

Cierre waited until he was out of sight and then emerged from the trees and returned to the path. There was no sign of anyone else climbing the hill and it seemed the man was alone. She debated what to do next and then decided that her best course of action was to approach the Ranger. If he was willing to talk she could find out where she was and then she would know what to do next. If he was hostile, well, a lone man would be much easier to kill than a group. She set out after the Ranger and retraced her steps up the hill.

When she stepped through the gap in the wall and re-entered the courtyard she saw the man sitting on the high throne. He was staring out into the distance, his expression pensive, but when Cierre appeared he leapt to his feet and drew his sword in a fast and fluid motion. He called out, presumably a challenge of some kind, but Cierre couldn't understand a word. She spoke nine languages fluently, and had a smattering of a couple of others, but this wasn't any of them.

"I mean no harm," Cierre said, as the man descended the stairs and approached her with his sword poised. She kept her bow lowered as a signal of her peaceful intent. "I wish only to learn where I am."

The man showed no sign of understanding the Common Tongue. She must be well outside the bounds of the part of Faerûn with which she was familiar. She grimaced. If this was an area without Eilistraee worshippers it was unlikely he'd be aware that Drow could be anything but an enemy. His stance with the sword, and his footwork as he advanced, showed that he was a skilled warrior. If it came to a fight she would have to strike to kill, as trying merely to stun or disarm him would be much too risky, and she didn't want that. In fact, as he was rather good-looking and moved well, she'd much rather fuck him than kill him.

She back-pedalled a short distance but did not yet raise her bow. She switched to the tongue of the Sy'Tel'Quessir surface Elves. "I mean you no harm," she said again.

The man stopped his advance and changed the poise of his sword from an offensive to a defensive position. "Who are you?" he asked, in Elvish. "And, indeed, _what_ are you?"

It wasn't quite the same dialect of the _Darthiiri_ tongue that Cierre knew but it was close enough that she could understand him. "I am Cierre of Luruar, a Ranger of the Silver Marches," she replied, "and I require assistance."

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," said the man. "What aid do you need, lady?"

Before she could reply the sound of a distant horn reached their ears. Cierre would have ignored it but the human reacted sharply.

"Boromir!" Aragorn exclaimed. Cierre took that to be a curse in his native language but his next words set her right. "He is in need. I must go to him." He lowered the sword to a neutral position and began to run towards the exit gap.

Cierre stepped aside to let him pass. She thought for a second. This, obviously, was not a good time for a conversation with the human Ranger. What should she do? Then she heard the horn blowing again and, also, the war-cries of orcs. If she joined the man in giving aid to his comrade it would certainly help her case… She turned around, took off at a run down the hill, and caught up with the human within a hundred yards.

"I shall come with you," she told the man. "My aid against the orcs in return for directions."

"I thank you," Aragorn grunted in reply, "my lady." He said nothing more; he was finding the descent harder going than Cierre and was, no doubt, conserving his breath for running.

Cierre crossed the stream, for yet a third time, by-passing the muddy earth but taking no special precautions to avoid leaving footprints. She remembered having once heard a human philosopher, in Silverymoon, say "You can never cross the same river twice." She had pointed out to him that she had crossed both the Surbrin and the Rauvin rivers on numerous occasions and he had only laughed. Now she was proving him wrong yet again. She put the stray thought out of her mind and ran on.

Gradually she began to leave the human Ranger behind. All Drow were fast runners, for their size, and could outdistance most humans over anything but a short sprint. Cierre's long legs, and exceptional physical fitness, meant that she could leave any normal-sized – no, she would not use that term, bringing back as it did bitter memories of being mocked for her 'freakish' height – any smaller Drow trailing in her dust. She looked behind her, saw that Aragorn was losing ground, and slowed her pace to match his.

"You are faster than me. Go on ahead," he urged her. "Boromir is a tall man in armour, with a round shield and a great horn. My other companions are four Hobbits, an Elf, and a Dwarf. Help them against the orcs, if you can."

She did not recognise one of the words. "Hobbits?" she queried.

"Halflings," he said.

She gave a quick nod. "I understand," she told him. "I will aid them. Farewell." She accelerated again, reached full speed, and left him behind.

The horn sounded again, and then again, still accompanied by the cries of orcs. The last blast sounded weaker, somehow, trailing off into a fading note. She veered from the path, aiming for the sound, and took a more direct course. Her hat blew off, dislodged by the wind of her passage through the air, and dangled behind her on its retaining cord. She did not pause to restore it to her head but kept on running.

And then she emerged into a clearing and there were the orcs.

Many of them, too many to count, but most of them were running off into the trees away from her. A dozen remained, clustered around the body of a human warrior who lay on the ground surrounded by orc corpses, and those dozen turned to face her and raised their weapons to fight.

"_Ultrinnan_!" she yelled. She drew back her bowstring and loosed an arrow at the largest orc. He was exceptionally big for an orc, perhaps a half-orc who took mainly after the orcish side of his heritage or even an ogrillon, and he wore a coat-of-plates and a shield emblazoned with the device of a white hand. At this range, against the Uthgardt heavy bow, he was little better off than if he had been naked and defending himself with a parchment scroll. Her arrow went through the shield, through his arm, and nailed the limb to his chest through the armour. He staggered back, howling in pain, and his companions roared and charged; all but one, who fell back behind the others but raised a bow and nocked an arrow.

Cierre loosed one more arrow, dropping an orc dead in his tracks, and then tossed the bow behind her and drew sword and axe. She struck once with her sword, once with her axe, and then again with the sword. Two orcs fell dead. She swayed aside to dodge a slash from a weapon resembling a falchion, drove her sword through the orc's stomach, and ripped her blade free. She hooked the rim of a shield with her hand-axe, pulled the shield out of line, and stabbed her sword into the orc's exposed flank. A back-hand blow with her axe disposed of an orc who was trying to get around behind her; an instant later she spun and slashed her sword across the throat of an orc flanking her on the other side.

The orcs had screened her from the orc archer at the rear and their fall left her momentarily exposed to his aim. He loosed a shaft and hit her in the left thigh. Her leg gave way under her and she fell. An orc blade swept down towards her and she rolled out of its path, feeling searing pain as the arrow shaft struck the ground and ripped the barbed head out of the wound, and then another orc kicked her in the stomach. Her Greenleaf armour absorbed the force of the blow, so that she took little hurt, and she lashed her sword around to take off his left leg at the ankle. The orc fell screaming to the ground.

The orc bowman was lining up another shot; she threw her hand-axe, hard, and struck him full in the face. She slew him but one of the surviving orcs caught her left wrist, before she could withdraw her arm from the throw, and held on tight. The crippled orc seized her sword arm. She struggled to free herself but each orc was using two arms against one of hers. Then the last unengaged orc stamped down on her wounded leg.

She could not hold back the scream of agony that burst from her lips. She redoubled her struggles, kicking out with her unwounded leg, but to no avail. The orc raised a scimitar to strike a finishing blow and there was nothing that she could do to avoid it. She was going to die.

And then a knife streaked through the air and struck the orc in the centre of his back. The scimitar stroke went astray and struck nothing but the ground. Cierre was just able to make out the fallen warrior, who had raised himself up to a sitting position, with his arm extended from the throw that had saved her life. Then the falling orc landed on her, driving the breath from her body, and pinned her down helpless against the pair of orcs, one crippled and one uninjured, who had hold of her arms. The first orc she had shot, badly wounded as he was and with one arm totally out of action, was shambling towards her rescuer with a broadsword poised to strike.

"Elendil!" A war-cry rang out and a running man entered her field of vision; Aragorn, the Ranger from the hilltop. He smote the head from the orc who threatened the fallen warrior, hurtled onwards, and laid into Cierre's captors. Two swift strokes laid them dead on the ground. Cierre started to wriggle out from under the dead orc; Aragorn heaved the corpse aside and freed her.

"You are wounded, my lady," he observed, bending down and looking at her leg.

Cierre managed to restrain herself from snapping at him for stating the obvious. "It is not serious," she said, instead. "See to your friend." Aragorn turned away and Cierre fumbled at her belt pouch for a healing potion.

Her fingers found only a pouch full of liquid and sharp pottery shards. Either the orc's kick, or the dying orc falling on top of her, had crushed the pouch and shattered the potion vials inside. She grimaced, put her fingers to her mouth, and licked them. The traces of potion on her fingers were just enough to heal the slight cuts she had suffered from the broken vials. The wound in her leg was unaffected and kept on bleeding.

She drew her boot knife and cut open her breeches to examine the wound. It was nasty, the arrow-head had torn the flesh badly when it ripped free, but she'd had worse. She cast a Cure Light Wounds spell, slowing the bleeding to a slow ooze and knitting much of the torn flesh together, and stood up. Her first priority was to retrieve her bow. Next she replaced her hat, now somewhat battered, on top of her head and then she limped off towards the two humans.

The Ranger was kneeling at the side of the man who had saved her life with a thrown knife; Boromir, she presumed. They were conversing in a language unknown to her. Cierre took a good look at Boromir and her heart sank. The shafts of three arrows protruded from his chest; from the lengths of shaft showing she could tell that they had gone completely through his chain shirt and sunk in deep. Very deep.

The single Cure Light Wounds spell remaining to her, and the two Cure Moderate Wounds spells on scrolls in her pack, would be about as much use as dabbing his brow with cool water. Even the shattered Cure Critical Wounds potions from her pouch would have been inadequate; the arrows would have to be removed first, for the potions to work, and the resultant tissue damage and blood loss would kill the man almost instantly.

"You saved my life," she said, in Elvish. "I thank you."

"My eyes dim," Boromir replied in the same language, "for you appear to me almost black. A valiant warrior maid art thou, milady, and I am glad I managed one last feat of arms before I die."

"Not just one," said Cierre, surveying the mound of bodies that surrounded the dying man. At a rough count he had killed over twenty orcs before they felled him. A great horn, cloven in two, lay among the corpses. "You are a truly great warrior. I regret that I could not arrive in time to fight at your side."

"We would… have… been invincible," Boromir said. Bloody froth came forth from his mouth as he spoke. "And yet… I failed."

"No," said Aragorn. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall."

"With you… and this… lady… there… I believe you…" Boromir gasped out. "Gondor…" A rivulet of blood emerged from his mouth, his head lolled aside, and he jerked once and then lay still.

Aragorn knelt beside him, clasping the dead man's hand, and tears ran down his cheeks. "Alas!" he lamented. "Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard! This is a bitter end. Now the Company is all in ruin. It is I that have failed. Vain was Gandalf's trust in me. What shall I do now? Boromir has laid it on me to go to Minas Tirith, and my heart desires it, but where are the…" He hesitated, as if changing his mind about what he was going to say, and then continued. "…the Halflings? How shall I find them and save the Quest from disaster?"

"I cannot advise you," Cierre said, "for I know not of what you speak. Yet none of the names that you mention mean anything to me at all. I think I am further from my homeland than I could have imagined. I may as well lend my services to you, at least for the time being, until I can find a way to get home."

"What?" Aragorn exclaimed. "You know not of Minas Tirith?"

"The place-name known to me that it most resembles is Myth Drannor," Cierre said, "and the resemblance is not close at all. Excuse me. I must finish tending to my wound."

The Ranger peered at her leg. "That is strange," he remarked. "I could have sworn the wound was much worse than that."

"I cast a healing spell earlier," Cierre explained. "I have one remaining and that should be enough to more or less make it as good as new." She cast another Cure Light Wounds and, as she had predicted, the wound closed up leaving only a thin line, little more than a scratch, on her skin.

Aragorn's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Elbereth!" he exclaimed. "You have healing powers beyond anything I have ever seen or even imagined."

Now it was the turn of Cierre's jaw to drop. "But… you are a Ranger, like me, are you not?" she said. "Surely you can cast such spells?"

"Lady, I have never heard of such a thing before," said Aragorn. "Even Lord Elrond possesses no such powers."

"Oh," said Cierre. "Oh. _Sussun pholor uns'aa_! _Usstan thun vithus_! Halaster's portal must have sent me outside the bounds of Faerûn. I suspect I am no longer even on Toril."

Aragorn looked at her, his head cocked to one side, and his brow furrowed deeply. "Where?"

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

A surface Elf and a Dwarf entered the clearing. The Elf bore a great bow, resembling an Elven Court bow but perhaps even finer, but his quiver was empty. The Dwarf held a battle-axe and there was blood on its blade. The Elf spoke to the Ranger, in the language Cierre didn't speak, but she could tell that his final sentence was a question about her. The Dwarf merely glowered at her with suspicion written all over his face.

"She speaks Sindarin but not Westron," Aragorn told the Elf. "This is… Shee-air," he introduced her, stumbling over her name. "She is a Ranger from a far place, or so she says, and she came to Boromir's aid when there was no-one else. Lady, these are my companions Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli son of Glóin."

"Cierre of Luruar at your service," she said, stressing the 'ch' sound at the beginning of her name. She swept off her hat and bowed; Dwarves, she had learned, responded well to that sort of courtesy.

"Gimli Glóin's son at yours," replied the Dwarf, returning her bow. The glower vanished from his face and was replaced by a broad smile. "Your countenance is strange but your speech is fair."

"A black Elf," said the Elf, Legolas. He shot a glance at his Dwarven companion, his eyebrows raised as if something the Dwarf had done had surprised or puzzled him, and then turned back to Cierre and stared at her. "I have never seen the like. From whence do you hail?"

"Luruar, known also as the Silver Marches, in the north of Faerûn," Cierre replied. "It must be far from here, for the places your comrade named are not known to me, and I think that this is not my world."

"Not your _world_?" Legolas echoed.

"I was exploring the dungeons of a mad wizard," Cierre explained, "and I was set upon by foes too numerous and well-armed to fight. I fled through a magical portal, not knowing where it would send me, and I found myself atop that hill. There I met Aragorn."

"And she volunteered her aid, asking only directions as payment," Aragorn said, "and out-distanced me to this glade. She slew many orcs but was sore wounded herself before I arrived. Then she healed herself, in some miraculous manner, the like of which I have never before seen."

"I cannot do it again," Cierre warned him. "I have but two healing spells and, now that I have cast them both, I need to sleep before I can regain them. I had potions of healing in my belt pouch but they were broken in the fight."

"A pity," Gimli said, "for such things would, no doubt, have been of great use." He heaved a sigh. "So, Aragorn, what now?"

"Boromir told me that the orcs had carried off Merry and Pippin, alive, and he could not prevent it," Aragorn said. "He did not see Frodo or Sam. I do not know what to do for the best. All that I have done today has gone amiss."

"First we must tend to the fallen," said Legolas. "We cannot leave him lying like carrion among these foul orcs."

"There is, then, no raising of the dead in this world?" Cierre asked. She suspected as much already, from the amazement with which her simple healing spells had been received, but wanted to make certain.

"Raising of the dead?" Aragorn echoed. "Such a thing would be black sorcery."

"Not in my world," said Cierre. "The High Priests of many temples, those of good gods as well as evil, can bring back the dead if the bodies are brought to them in time. They charge much gold, or sworn services, for such an act." She shrugged. "It makes little difference to me that it cannot be done here. I knew no-one who would have paid to bring me back." She went to the corpse of the orc archer she had slain earlier, wrenched her hand-axe free from his skull, and began to clean the blade.

"Your world must be strange indeed," said Legolas, shaking his head slowly. "Black Elves! Forgive me if I seem rude but I have never seen any like unto you before. In Middle Earth only the servants of the Enemy are black of skin. And none, save for the elderly among the humans, have hair of such a pure white."

"Most Elves in my world look like you," Cierre told him. "Only my people, the Ilythiiri who are called Drow by the other Elves, have black skin and white hair." She decided to refrain from mentioning the ancient enmity between the Drow and the surface Elves; this _Darthiir_ appeared willing to treat her without hostility and there was no point in raising matters that did not apply in this world.

"We must move swiftly," said Gimli. "Boromir would not want us to linger. We must follow the orcs, if there is hope that any of our Company are living prisoners."

"But we do not know if Frodo and Sam are with them or not," said Aragorn. "Are we to abandon them? Must we not seek them first? An evil choice is now before us."

"Then let us do first what we must do," said Legolas. "We have not the time or the tools to bury our comrade fitly, or to raise a mound over him. A cairn we might build."

"The labour would be hard and long," said Gimli. "There are no stones that we could use nearer than the water-side."

"Then let us lay him in a boat with his weapons, and the weapons of his vanquished foes," said Aragorn. "We will send him to the Falls of Rauros and give him to the Anduin. The River of Gondor will take care at least that no evil creature dishonours his bones."

They began to gather up the weapons of the orcs. Cierre assisted them. It did not seem to occur to them that the belongings of fallen foes could be taken and sold. Still, their world, their customs, and she had acquired plenty of gold in Undermountain anyway. When in Waterdeep, as the saying went, do as the Waterdhavians do. She refrained from appropriating those few items that might be saleable and merely added them to the heap collected by the others.

"See! Here we find tokens," Aragorn exclaimed, picking out a pair of daggers from the pile. "No orc-blades these. They were born by the Hobbits." There was that strange word again but this time Cierre recognised it as a local name for Halflings. "Doubtless the orcs despoiled them but feared to keep the knives, knowing them for what they are; work of Westernesse, wound about with spells for the bane of Mordor." Magic daggers? Cierre pricked up her ears.

"Well, now, if they still live, our friends are weaponless," Aragorn continued. "I will take these things, hoping against hope to give them back."

"And I," said Legolas, "will take all the arrows that I can find, for my quiver is empty." He searched the pile, and the ground, and gathered up a reasonable number of undamaged arrows that were long enough for his bow.

Cierre recovered one of her own arrows from a corpse; the one that had pierced the shield of the largest orc was impossible to retrieve. She did not bother with the orcs' arrows, for she was still amply supplied, and indeed she had a second full quiver stowed in her Lesser Bag of Holding against future need. She would have offered it to Legolas but he managed to find sufficient from the belongings of the dead.

The man, the Elf, and the Dwarf then began to discuss the meanings of the insignia displayed by the orcs. Most of the conversation was completely meaningless to Cierre but she gathered that they had two enemies who might employ the orcs; a major player named Sauron, and a lesser opponent named Saruman. Possibly, they seemed to think, the two were in league. Cierre filed away that information, which would acquire more meaning once she knew more about this world, and waited.

Gimli the Dwarf then constructed a crude wooden bier which they would use to carry Boromir's body down to the river. Cierre took one corner, without being asked, and was thanked by the others.

"He saved my life, when he lay wounded unto death," she said. "I will join you in doing him honour."

"Yet your life was in peril only because you sought to aid him, at my request," said Aragorn. "We are in your debt."

Cierre wasn't used to being thanked. She was more accustomed to having her reward thrust at her with a curt acknowledgement and a strong hint that, now that the trolls or orcs had been slain, her presence in the area was no longer required and she should vacate the region immediately. Being treated as an equal, and having her contribution valued, was a new and pleasant experience. She couldn't think of a suitably courteous response and merely nodded her head.

They reached the bank of the river and set Boromir's bier down. "I shall watch over the body," Aragorn said, "if you, Legolas and Gimli, go and fetch the boats." The Elf and the Dwarf departed, making their way along the bank heading upstream, and Aragorn sat down.

The river was wide and an island stood in the middle of the channel. Cierre went to the water and washed her hands and face. She disposed of the debris from her potion pouch in the river; the fish in the immediate vicinity would be puzzled to find themselves briefly endowed with unusual powers of healing. The padding in the pouch, which had proved woefully inadequate, was saturated and she decided that keeping the pouch would be more trouble than it was worth. She weighted it down with a couple of stones and sent it to the bottom of the river.

Next she examined the rent in her breeches and saw that they were beyond her ability to repair. She would have to wait until she found a city and could hire a seamstress. "I must change my clothes," she informed Aragorn.

"Very well, my lady, I shall turn my back," he said, and did so.

Cierre stripped off, cleaned the blood from her leg, and wiped her body down with a piece of cloth moistened in the river. She extracted a clean pair of breeches from her pack and dressed again. Aragorn had been a perfect gentleman and had not even tried to take a peek; Cierre was slightly disappointed, as she definitely found him attractive and would have appreciated some evidence that he was interested in her as a woman, but she was also pleased at further evidence that this stranger, into whose company she had been thrown by chance, was an honourable man.

"I am dressed once more," she told him, and he turned around.

"The boats are a mile upstream," he said, "and so it will be some time before my comrades return with them. We have time to talk. You were transported here by enchantment, you say?"

"That is so," she confirmed. "I had thought that the portal would merely take me elsewhere in my own world and I am at a loss now I find myself in another world altogether."

"I wish I knew how to help you," said Aragorn. "Our companion Gandalf was a mighty wizard and may well have been able to return you to your home, if anyone could, but he was slain in Moria. The only other person who might have such power, and knowledge of lore, is the Lady Galadriel. She dwells in the realm of Lothlórien." He pointed upstream. "It took us ten days to travel here from there, and that was with the advantage of the current. Also the Elves of Lothlórien have closed the land to strangers and, alone, you would not be admitted. I would escort you there, if I could, but my duty to my captive friends must come first."

"I understand," Cierre said. "Let me, then, assist you in their rescue."

"I cannot ask that of you, Lady Cierre," Aragorn said. "Our Quest is perilous beyond all measure and it was given to us alone to complete."

"Then what would you have me do?" Cierre asked, a touch of annoyance creeping into her tone. "Wander alone in a world I do not know? If I do not accompany you, where do I go?"

Aragorn raised a hand and tugged at the lobe of his right ear. "It is a dilemma," he said. "We are far from any safe haven. Perhaps, if you took one of the boats and entered the river south of the Falls, you could make your way down to Osgiliath. Yet the way passes through perilous territory. Also, although it saddens me to say it, you would be met with suspicion in Gondor. Your black skin would be deemed to mark you as a servant of the Enemy. That you speak no Westron would make things even more difficult. The nobility of Gondor speak Sindarin but the common soldiery, such as you would find guarding the gates, do not." He ran his finger down his jaw, from his ear to the point of his chin, and toyed with the hairs of his beard. "You would need someone to speak for you. I will come, then, and leave Legolas and Gimli to pursue the orcs."

"The orcs that I saw departing numbered many more than the dozen who remained to face me," said Cierre. "Your friends would be going to their deaths and the captives would not be rescued. Four of us, however, could achieve much. I well know my own skill, and what I saw of you shows you also to be a redoubtable warrior, and if your two companions are equally skilled then fifty orcs would be no match for us."

"You have nearly died for us already, my lady," said Aragorn. "I cannot ask you to do more."

"As I have said, I have little choice," said Cierre. "I am a Ranger and my trade is slaying orcs and trolls. I am no helpless maid who needs to be protected. And stop calling me 'my lady'. My name is Cierre."

"You make your case well… Cierre," said Aragorn. This time he pronounced her name correctly. He heaved a sigh. "In truth, I think I have no choice but to accept your offer. To do otherwise would place either you, or my comrades, in peril greater still. Yet this does not sit easy with me."

"Sargh lueth kyona phuul dro'xundus," Cierre said. She saw Aragorn's brow furrow and explained. "A proverb of my people," she said. "It means 'Strength at arms, and wariness, are survival.' That is how I live my life. I will accompany you, and I will play my part, and we shall slay the orcs and rescue your Halfling friends."

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Aragorn spent the next few minutes explaining to Cierre something of the politics and geography of the surrounding lands. To the north lay the Elven realm of Lothlórien, which he had already mentioned, and also the forest of Mirkwood which was the home of Legolas. To the west lay the grasslands of a country named Rohan, inhabited by barbarian warriors who fought on horseback, and the tower of the evil wizard Saruman. Downstream, to the south, lay the cities of the land of Gondor. It sounded, from his description, as if Gondor was an empire in terminal decline. Immediately to the east of Gondor was Mordor, the realm of Sauron, a domain of orcs and monsters from which came a constant stream of attacks upon Gondor and the other civilised lands.

Before Aragorn could go into more detail Legolas and Gimli returned, with two small boats, and they reported that their third boat was missing but had not been stolen by orcs. This implied, therefore, that the two Halflings Frodo and Sam had taken it. Aragorn said that he would investigate, to confirm or disprove that assumption, after seeing to Boromir. They then proceeded to lay out the fallen warrior for his funeral.

Cierre was reminded of what she had heard of the customs of the Northmen of Ruathym. They sent their fallen chieftains into the afterlife on their ships, although the Northmen usually set the ships on fire as part of the ceremony, and chanted funeral laments as they did so. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli sang songs honouring the dead man and then sent Boromir's boat down the river towards the great waterfall.

Privately Cierre thought this was all a waste of time. Every minute the orcs were getting further away with their Halfling captives. It was important to the others, though, and so she treated the ceremony with due solemnity. She even delivered a short eulogy, in her own tongue, acknowledging him as a great warrior and giving thanks that he had saved her life. She spoke from the heart, for it was the truth, and her new companions obviously recognised her sincerity even though they could not understand her words. Their faces displayed respect for her, and thankfulness for her participation, and Cierre found this oddly comforting. She was unused to participating in surfacer customs, mainly because those she knew in the Silver Marches still treated her as an outsider after over fifteen years, and it was pleasant to have, seemingly, won at least partial acceptance.

After the funeral they paddled upstream and examined the place where the boats had been stowed. Cierre found signs that a Hobbit had waded into the water, and then had returned to the land, and that boats had been pushed into the water more than once. Aragorn, who was as accomplished at reading sign as was she, knew things she did not and so was able to work out the sequence of events.

Indeed the two missing Halflings, Frodo and Sam, had taken a boat and crossed the river. They had set off alone on their mission. The others were not willing to reveal the details of the quest to Cierre, and some of their conversation was in the human language 'Westron' deliberately to keep things from her, but she could make a guess.

"I understand that your quest is not my business," she said, "and I am not offended that you do not speak of it to one who is, still, virtually a stranger. However I think I can give my own account of things. This 'Dark Lord' Sauron, in his lair in Mordor, guards some artefact from which he draws power. Your Halfling companions are tasked with stealing it." She nodded her head. "Yes, that fits. Were I to choose a pair to carry out such a task, and were thieves of my own people not available, it is to the _Sakphen_ – Halflings – that I would turn."

"I will not say if you are wrong or if you are right," said Aragorn, frowning. "Why, then, do you think they left here by themselves, leaving us behind?"

"You were their escort, is it not so? Yet you cannot protect them by force of arms, not now that we are close to the territory of the enemy, and he can send overwhelming numbers against us," she said. "Therefore you became a danger to the Halflings, rather than a safeguard, for no human or Dwarf can match the stealth of the little barefoot people. They left by themselves so that you could not insist upon accompanying them."

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli exchanged guarded looks. "Again, I will not say if you are correct," said Aragorn. "Yet, I ask you, do not speak of this to anyone other than ourselves."

"I will not talk," said Cierre. "It is only by chance that we have met, but you have greeted me with friendship, and I will regard myself as one of your party until we mutually decide otherwise."

"She is coming with us in pursuit of the orcs?" Legolas asked. "Is that wise?"

"As she said to me, what else is she to do?" Aragorn answered. "Are we to abandon her here, alone, many miles from any safe shelter? I have agreed she may accompany us. And she will not slow us down; never in my life have I seen so fast a runner." He held up a hand as Legolas opened his mouth to speak again. "The decision is made. Loath as I am to take a lady into deadly peril, there is no other choice. Let us, then, tarry no more but be off."

"We are, then, leaving Frodo and Sam to make their own way, and following after the orcs who seized Merry and Pippin?" Gimli queried.

"We are," Aragorn confirmed. "I would have guided Frodo to Mordor, and gone with him to the end, but if I seek him now in the wilderness I must abandon the captives to torment and death. My heart speaks clearly at last. The fate of… Frodo's quest… is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part but we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left. We will go now. Leave all that cannot be spared behind. We will press on by day and dark."

They drew up the last boat, and carried it to the trees, and laid beneath it such of their goods as they did not need and could not carry away. Then they returned to the glade where Boromir had fallen. There they picked up the trail of the orcs; it needed little skill to find.

"No other folk make such a trampling," said Legolas. "It seems their delight to slash and beat down growing things that are not even in their way."

"The more fools them," said Cierre. "The orcs of my world are not so stupid. If these were the orcs of King Obould Many-Arrows then they would take a path hard to follow and waste no energy on wanton destruction. If such a plain trail was left then it would lead, inevitably, into a cunning ambush."

"Such is not their custom here, for which we may be thankful," said Aragorn. "Yet they will go with great speed and they do not tire. And later we may have to search for their path in hard bare lands."

"With two Rangers that should not be too hard a task," said Cierre. "Let us be off!"

"Indeed," said Gimli. "Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they tire no sooner than do orcs, but it will be a long chase. They have a long start."

'And whose fault is that?' thought Cierre. 'They must have travelled a good five miles or more during the time we spent on Boromir's funeral.' She held her tongue, though, not wanting to offend her new companions with such a comment.

"Yes," said Aragorn, "we shall all need the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope, or without hope, we shall follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them if we prove the swifter! We shall make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds; Elves, Dwarves, and Men."

"And Drow," Cierre put in.

"And Drow," Aragorn agreed. "Forth the Four Hunters!" Like a deer he sprang away through the trees. The others followed.

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All through the afternoon they followed the trail, and as dusk fell, and on through the night. Cierre travelled at a steady lope, effortlessly eating up the miles, easily matching the pace of the others and with reserves of speed to spare. Legolas, too, ran lightly and swiftly.

"Aragorn was not exaggerating your prowess at running," he said to Cierre, as they ran.

"And you, too, run well," said Cierre. "Better than the surface Elves of my homeland."

"_Surface_ Elves?" Legolas queried.

"My people, the Drow, live underground," Cierre explained. "I left them to live upon the surface world. To them I am _Dobluth_ – outcast."

"Tell me of your world," said Legolas, "if, that is, you have breath to spare for conversation."

"I can keep up this pace with no effort," said Cierre, "and I would be happy to talk as we run, but I see little point in telling you of my world now. I think it would be better use of our time if you told me of your world – or, better still, if you taught me the language of humans. I do not wish to be able to converse only with Elves, Dwarves, and nobles."

"Few Dwarves speak Sindarin," said Legolas. "In fact I was not aware that Gimli knew the language until he spoke to you."

"It never came up before," Gimli said. "The Elves of Lothlórien spoke with an accent I could not understand. And even your… Elvish… does not come… easily to me. Teach… the girl… Westron, Legolas, as she… asks." The spaces between his words grew longer as he spoke, interrupted by long breaths, and on completion of his request he fell silent once more and concentrated on his running.

"I shall," Legolas agreed, and he began to give Cierre instruction. He spoke Elvish words, and their Westron translations, and then put them into sentences.

Cierre was relieved to find that the grammar of Westron followed similar rules to the Common Tongue used as a trade language in Faerûn. Possibly there was some far distant link between the humans of the two worlds, perhaps from the time when the Imaskari Empire was pillaging other worlds for slaves, or possibly both languages had been influenced in their formative stages by Elvish. The process of learning the language was made simpler by that similarity, however it had come about, and it became a matter merely of memorising vocabulary.

By the time they halted, an hour or so before dawn was due, Cierre had mastered a fair number of simple phrases. Not enough to carry on any kind of conversation, however, and they continued to speak Elvish as they discussed their next actions. They had reached a valley with a floor littered with rocks and stones, with a small stream running through it, and the trail of the orcs could no longer be made out.

"We cannot assume that they followed the valley," Aragorn said. "They may have turned aside and, if they did, we could miss in the dark the signs of their departure. We must, therefore, wait for daylight before continuing."

"I see in the dark much better than any human or surface Elf," Cierre told him. "I could watch out for any sign of them leaving the valley."

Aragorn shook his head. "We would still have to go slowly," he said, "for you would have to check in all directions. Also they could have gone either upstream or downstream. Upstream, to the north, I would guess, but I cannot be certain. Better to wait for the day when we will have four sets of eyes."

"I will not deny that I would be glad of a rest, and a meal," Cierre said. "I have enough food to share."

"As do we," said Aragorn. "Let us each contribute something."

"Mushrooms!" Gimli exclaimed, as Cierre produced food from her pack. "You would get on well with the Hobbits."

"They are the staple diet of my people," Cierre said. "I also have fruit, cheese, smoked fish, and meat both fresh and salted."

"Then we should eat the fresh first," said Legolas, "for the lembas that we carry will keep, as will your smoked and salted foods, but the other will go off."

They lit a fire and prepared a simple meal. The water in the stream was clear and if the orcs had befouled it any traces had washed away completely. Aragorn deemed it safe to drink and they refreshed themselves. After that they lay down and snatched a short period of sleep.

They rose with the sun. "Now," said Aragorn, "let us consider which way the orcs went. The southward course would lead them to the Entwash. I cannot envisage that they would take that route. Northwards, therefore, and then at some point they will turn west. That would give them the shortest route across the fields of the Rohirrim and thence to Isengard."

Cierre could not debate the merits of his deduction, lacking the necessary knowledge of the region's geography, and was content to abide by the decision of the others. Legolas and Gimli agreed with Aragorn and so, after a brief toilet, they set off once more up the valley to the north.

To their right a cliff loomed, casting a shadow across the valley, and to their left rose grey slopes. In the gloom Cierre's eyes were sharper than those of the others; thus it was that she was first to see the proof that they were on the right track.

"Look!" she called, pointing to what seemed at first sight to be mere boulders. "There lie some of those we pursue."

Five dead orcs lay on the valley floor. They had been hacked and slashed with many strokes and two had been beheaded.

"This seems not unhelpful," Legolas said, "for enemies of the orcs are likely to be our friends. Do any folk dwell in these hills?"

"No," said Aragorn. "The Rohirrim seldom come here, and it is far from Minas Tirith. It might be that some company of Men were hunting here for reasons that we do not know. Yet I think not."

"If they were slain by enemies," said Cierre, "then why are there only five? Surely a force powerful enough to defeat the orcs would not have abandoned the fight with many left unslain. Yet, had the orcs overcome their attackers, then human bodies would lie alongside those of the orcs. Unless the orcs fought a lone warrior, took him or her alive and carried away a captive, then I think it likely that this is the result of a disagreement within the orc band. A chieftain enforcing order."

"I agree," said Aragorn. "These are Northern Orcs, from far away, and none of those slain are the great ones with the badge of the White Hand. I suspect there was some dispute about the road."

"Or about the captives," said Gimli. "Let us hope that no harm came to them."

They set off once more. A mile or so further up the valley they came to a place where a tiny babbling brook descended the western slope to merge with the larger stream. Along the sides of the channel carved by the brook grew bushes, and occasional patches of grass, and the watercourse formed an easy path up the slope.

Aragorn examined the area, bending over to peer at the ground, and then straightened up with an expression of relief on his face. "At last!" he exclaimed. "Here are the tracks that we sought. Up this water-channel; this is the way that the orcs went after their debate."

The party climbed the slope, emerging onto a high ridge which provided them with a view of the area for miles around, and continued to follow the trail of the orcs. They descended the ridge on the far side and emerged onto the green fields of Rohan.

"Light feet may run swiftly here, and the trail is plain to see," said Aragorn. "Now is our chance to lessen their lead!"

They ran on. Legolas resumed the lessons in Westron that he was giving to Cierre, although keeping his gaze focused on the trail they followed, but before very long he was interrupted by a cry from Aragorn.

"Stay!" Aragorn commanded, turning aside from the path. "Do not follow me yet." By this time it was broad daylight, and Cierre's distance vision was suffering accordingly, and she was unable to see what he had found. Aragorn went some distance away from the trail, picked up something from the grass, and then returned.

"Yes," he said, on rejoining the group, "they are quite plain; a Hobbit's footprints. Pippin, I think, for he is smaller than the other. And look at this!" He held aloft a glittering, leaf-shaped, object.

"The brooch of an Elven-cloak!" exclaimed Legolas and Gimli together.

"Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," said Aragorn. "This did not drop by chance; it was cast away as a token to any that might follow. I think Pippin ran away from the trail for that very purpose."

"Then he, at least, was alive and with the use of his wits and his legs," said Gimli. "We do not pursue in vain."

"Let us hope he did not suffer for his cleverness," said Legolas, and they ran on.

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All through the day they ran. When darkness fell they halted and Aragorn considered whether or not to go on through the night.

"If we continue we risk missing the trail," he said.

"And if a captive escapes again, or was carried off by a smaller party – eastward, say, to the Great River or to Mordor – we might pass the sign and never know it," Gimli added.

"By day your eyes are sharper than mine," said Cierre, "but by night mine are at their sharpest. I would not stray from so broad a trail and I could be alert for any signs of any leaving the path."

Aragorn scratched his head. "There is no moon. You can truly see well enough in the dark to spot the footprints of a Halfling?"

"I can," Cierre assured him. "Not if he was taking care to leave as little sign as possible, of course, but if he was running then I would not miss his tracks. And there is no way that a group of orcs could leave the main body without me being aware of it."

"Yet we must rest," said Gimli. "Even I, Dwarf of many journeys and not the least hardy of my folk, cannot run all the way to Isengard without any pause – not if I am to be fit to fight at the end. And, if we rest, this blind night is the time to do it."

"You said that you must sleep to regain your healing magics," Aragorn reminded Cierre. "We snatched a single hour of sleep before dawn. Was that sufficient?"

"No," Cierre admitted. "I must sleep for at least four hours to recover my spells."

"Then we shall sleep for four hours," said Aragorn. "Let us continue on for an hour or so, and then camp and sleep awhile, but we will rise well before dawn and you shall guide us onward through the darkness."

They pressed on, at a walk rather than a run, with Cierre scanning the ground as they went. Then Aragorn called a halt. They ate, and slept, and then arose. Again they proceeded at a walk. When the sun rose, and Aragorn took over the tracking duties, they had gained some ten miles over the distance they would have made had they slept through the night.

Through the day they continued on. The trail led straight to the north-west, without deviation, across league after league of the plains. By late in the day Legolas was weary enough that he had to discontinue his language lessons; Cierre, too, was beginning to flag and was glad that she could concentrate only on putting one foot in front of the other. She was relieved when Aragorn decided that they should rest through most of the night, not availing themselves of Cierre's night vision, and would rise only a single hour before the dawn.

With that amount of rest Legolas and Cierre both felt refreshed enough to carry on with language lessons through the next day. Cierre's command of Westron was, by the end of the day, sufficient that she could converse with Aragorn and Gimli in that language, as they set up camp, and understand most of what they said without needing to fall back on Elvish. It would not yet see her through a complex conversation but was adequate for the necessities of daily life in the wilderness.

Again they rose before the dawn.

"I see a fire in the distance," Cierre reported, "and it is along the line of the trail we follow."

"I see it not," said Legolas. "Are you sure of what you see?"

"I am sure," Cierre said. "Once the sun rises you should see the smoke. I see moving figures, too, with metal glinting in the light from the fire. Horsemen, I think."

"We will continue to follow the trail," Aragorn said. "Horsemen in these parts can be only the Rohirrim. If they encountered the orcs they would fight them. What you see might be a battle in progress."

"I hope the Hobbits come through it unscathed," said Gimli. "Well, the sooner we get there, the sooner we will find out. Onward we must go."

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Dawn broke and the sky became clear and pale.

"Cierre was right," said Legolas. "I see smoke, as she said, and – yes – there are riders. They come this way."

"A large force," Aragorn said. "The Rohirrim are organised into squadrons called _éoreds_, each of one hundred and twenty men at full strength, and I would guess one such approaches."

"I think you are correct, for they number one hundred and five," said Legolas. "Yellow is their hair, and bright are their spears, and their leader is very tall."

"Keen are the eyes of the Elves," said Aragorn.

"Nay, for they are little more than five miles distant," said Legolas. "Keener are the eyes of the Drow, to have seen them in the dark when they were yet further away."

"Now that it is daylight I can barely make out that there is something moving," said Cierre. "To say whether they number five or one hundred and five would be beyond me."

"There are three empty saddles," said Legolas, "but I see no Hobbits."

Aragorn frowned. "That is a bad sign," he said. "I begin to dread what we shall hear."

"They will reach us soon," said Gimli, "and they will not miss us in this empty land. Shall we march to meet them, or wait here?"

"We wait," said Aragorn. "They will reach us soon enough, bringing good news or ill, and we are weary. Once we have spoken to them we will know better what our course should be."

They sat down in the grass, wrapped their cloaks about them, and awaited the approach of the riders. "What do you know of these horsemen, Aragorn?" Gimli asked. "If they are hostile we would face a battle we could not win."

"I have been among them," answered Aragorn. "They are a proud people, but true-hearted, generous in thought and deed, and bold but not cruel. They write no books but, instead, record their histories in songs. They have long been the friends of the people of Gondor, although they are not kin to them; their kinship lies rather with the Bardings and the Beornings of the North. I know not how things lie with them now, between the traitor Saruman and the threat of Sauron, but they are no friends of the orcs."

"Gandalf spoke of a rumour that they pay tribute to Sauron," said Gimli.

"I believe it no more than did Boromir," said Aragorn.

"We shall learn the truth very soon," said Legolas, "for they are almost upon us."

As they drew closer Cierre was able to see them clearly. They were tall men, on big horses, clad in mail and armed with long spears. Their leader was, as Legolas had said, taller even than the rest. He wore a helm crowned with a white horse-tail, and its cheek-guards partially hid his face, but what could be seen of it was handsome. He was broad-shouldered but slim at the waist, he sat straight and proud in the saddle, and Cierre licked her lips.

"_Usstan orn'la vith nindel jaluk_," she muttered to herself.

"What was that?" Aragorn asked her.

"Their leader is… impressive," Cierre said. She had gathered, during the past days, that these people were reticent, perhaps even prudish, about sexual matters. Aragorn would probably be shocked if she explained the true meaning of her comment; 'I'd fuck that male'.

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The riders drew closer, drew level, and then thundered past a hundred yards away. Contrary to Gimli's assertion it seemed that they were oblivious to the small party's presence; of course all four of the group were wearing Cloaks of Elvenkind. The horsemen might have passed by altogether had Aragorn not stood up and shouted out "What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

The horsemen checked their steeds, wheeled about, and formed into a ring with the party at the centre. They came to a halt with spears levelled. Some of them had bows; they drew back the strings and aimed arrows at the four companions.

Cierre glowered at Aragorn. "_Olot' dos, waela jaluk_," she muttered. He ignored her, his attention being fixed on the Rohirrim, which was perhaps as well; she was angry enough to have translated the remark ('Darkness take you, foolish male') had he asked.

The leader of the horsemen advanced until his spear was poised little more than a foot from Aragorn's chest. Aragorn did not move.

"Who are you and what are you doing in this land?" the Rohirrim leader asked, in Westron. Cierre had learned enough, by now, to be able to understand him.

"I am called Strider," Aragorn replied. Cierre did not understand the last word, his nickname had not been mentioned since she joined the company, and she thought that Aragorn was, for some reason, giving an assumed name. "I came out of the North. I am hunting orcs."

The rider dismounted, handed his spear to one of his fellows, and drew his sword. He stood in front of Aragorn, looking him up and down, and then spoke again. "At first I thought you were orcs yourselves but now I see that it is not so. Indeed you know little of Orcs, if you go hunting them in this fashion. They were swift and well-armed, and they were many. You would have changed from hunters to prey, if ever you had overtaken them. But there is something strange about you, _Strider_. That is no name for a Man that you give. And strange too is your raiment. Have you sprung out of the grass? How did you escape our sight? Are you Elvish folk?"

"No," said Aragorn. "Only two of us are Elves; Legolas, from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood; and Cierre, from a realm even more distant. But we have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us."

The rider frowned. "Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!" he said. "Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe." He looked more closely at Legolas and Gimli and then his gaze fixed on Cierre. "Béma!" he exclaimed. "What creature of darkness is this?" He swung his sword to point directly at her.

"Cierre's skin may be black but her heart is true," Aragorn said. "She speaks little Westron, only Elvish. Direct any questions you may have for her at me."

"Then tell her to stand up, and to take off her hat that I might clearly see her face," the horsemen's leader commanded.

Cierre followed most of that, but not all, and waited for Aragorn's translation before obeying. "_Usstan nau velendev ssinssrin ulu vith'os, kke jaluk_," she said, as she stood up.

"What was that?" Aragorn asked in Sindarin.

"I told the male that I no longer regard him as attractive," Cierre replied, giving a severely censored version of what she had really said. She took off her hat and met the man's gaze.

He scowled back at her. "A creature of darkness indeed. Perhaps I should strike you dead before you can cast any enchantment upon me." He drew back his sword and raised it high. Cierre dropped one hand to her sword hilt and the other to the haft of her axe.

"She stands not alone," Legolas said, coming to his feet. His hands moved in a blur as he nocked an arrow and took up tension on the string. "You would die before your stroke fell."

"And my axe will be raised in her defence too," Gimli added. He also stood up. "You slander one who is as staunch and true a warrior as any Dwarf, Horselord," he said, "and you speak evil of the Lady also, who is fair beyond the reach of your thought. Only little wit can excuse you."

Aragorn sprang forward, his empty hands raised, and placed himself between the Rohirrim and his comrades. "Your pardon, Marshall of Rohan, for such I guess you to be," he said. "Lower your bow, Legolas, and your axe, Gimli." He switched to Sindarin. "Do not draw your weapons, Cierre." Then, in Westron, he addressed the Rohirrim leader once again. "When you know more you will know why you have angered my companions. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"

"I will," said the Marshall. "But wanderers in the Riddermark would be wise to be less haughty. First tell me your right name."

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the Dúnedain," Aragorn answered. "What is your name, and whom do you serve? Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor?"

"I am Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshall of the Mark," said the Rohirrim commander. "I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King son of Thengel. We do not serve the Power of the Black Land far away, but neither are we yet at open war with him, and if you are fleeing from him then you had best leave this land. We desire only to be free, and to live as we have lived, keeping our own, and serving no foreign lord, good or evil. We welcomed guests kindly in the better days, but now there is trouble on our borders, and threats beset us, and in these times the unbidden stranger finds us swift and hard. Come! Who are you? Whom do you serve? At whose command do you hunt Orcs in our land? And, I say again, what is this black creature that you bring with you?"

"Call not Cierre a 'creature'," said Aragorn. "She is an Elf, like Legolas there, and only her skin is black. She fought alone against a dozen orcs at once, trying to save one of my comrades, and she slew eight of them and crippled two more before I arrived. I serve no man, and hunt orcs at no man's command, but the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go. Few among mortal Men know more of orcs, and I do not hunt them in this fashion out of choice. The orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends. In such need a man that has no horse will go on foot, and he will not ask for leave to follow the trail. Nor will he count the heads of the enemy save with a sword. I am not weaponless."

He swept his sword out from his scabbard and held it aloft. "Elendil!" he cried. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!"

Cierre did not follow all of that speech by any means, save to gather that he was speaking up for her, and that he was ending with a call to the Rohirrim commander that sounded more like a request for an alliance than an appeal for aid. She did, however, recognise that there was a charisma about Aragorn, and an air of authority, that was having a powerful effect on the Horselord. And on her; she would have stripped off and coupled with him right there, on the grass in front of everyone's eyes, had he asked. Unfortunately he had never shown the slightest hint of sexual interest in her; perhaps he lusted only after other males.

Éomer stepped back and lowered his sword. "These are strange days indeed," he said. "Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass. Tell me, Lord, what brings you here? And what was the meaning of the dark words? Long has Boromir son of Denethor been gone seeking an answer, and the horse we lent to him came back riderless. What doom do you bring out of the North?"

Cierre had followed only part of that conversation, which seemed to be referring to things she knew nothing about, although she had recognised the name 'Boromir'. She tried to make sense of the rest, as the two men continued to speak, but gathered only that Aragorn was giving a condensed version of the quest and of the part she had played since she joined the party. The Horselord, Éomer, replied with an account of his force's conflict with the orcs.

Legolas recognised that she was struggling and, quietly, he translated a few crucial parts for her. Apparently the Riders had intercepted the orcs, wiped them out in pitched battle with the loss of fifteen of their own men and twelve horses, and had burned the corpses of the orcs in a pyre. That had been the fire Cierre had seen during the night. They had seen no Halflings.

"They escaped in the confusion, no doubt," Cierre said to Legolas. "Halflings are nimble, and quick, and stealthier than any."

"I hope that you are right," said Legolas.

Aragorn then made an appeal to Éomer for the loan of horses. Éomer looked pensive.

"I am willing to lend the three spare horses to you and your Dwarven and Elvish companions," he said, "but I am still doubtful about the other, the black-skinned one. You admit that you met her only four days ago; she could well be a servant of the Dark Lord. That she slew orcs proves nothing. Would it not be worth the lives of a few orcs to place a spy in your company?"

"They would have slain her, had Boromir not thrown a knife with almost his dying breath, and had I arrived a few seconds later," said Aragorn. "Though I have known her for mere days I am willing, already, to trust her with my life."

"But I am not," said Éomer. "The orcs are slain, now, and your need for another warrior is therefore less pressing. I will lend you the horses, and give you leave to search for your missing friends in the land of Rohan, but I will take this… black Elf woman into my custody and hold her hostage in Edoras. When you return with the horses I will release her to you once again."

"That is unworthy," said Aragorn, "and poor thanks to Cierre for her efforts on behalf of captives she never even met. Also it is going against the dying wishes of Boromir, who asked Cierre to go with me to help defend Gondor. Only our need to rescue our captive friends has prevented us from acting as he wished."

"My mind is made up," said Éomer. "I will not permit her to wander Rohan unwatched. Neither can I spare men to accompany you, for I am under orders to return to Edoras forthwith. Therefore the… lady must come with me."

Aragorn frowned. "I will not hand her over against her will," he said. "I will speak with her and find out if she will give her consent. If she is unwilling then we shall continue on foot, with your leave or without it."

Aragorn turned to Cierre and, in Sindarin, explained Éomer's demand.

"Often have I been met with suspicion because of my race," Cierre said, "and I am used to it. Do you believe this Éomer is an honourable man?"

"I do," Aragorn said. "He is overly suspicious, that is all, but then he does not know you as we have come to know you over these past days. I believe that you would be well treated, if you accede to his request, but I would not blame you if you refused. In your position I doubt that I would accept such treatment."

"As I said, I have grown accustomed to it," said Cierre. "Very well, you may tell him that I agree, provided that it is clear that I am a hostage and not a prisoner. I have committed no crime."

"You are noble indeed, Cierre," said Aragorn.

"Pragmatic, rather," said Cierre. "Although this displeases me mightily I feel that there is no point in resisting. It would only bring trouble upon you."

"I thank you," said Aragorn. "We will return for you as soon as we are able." He turned back to Éomer and began to inform him of Cierre's agreement and conditions.

"There is no need to translate," Éomer said, interrupting Aragorn. "I learned Sindarin as a child, although it is long since I used it, and I understood what you said. I hope you will forgive my discourtesy in not saying so before. I agree to those conditions, which are most reasonable, and I give my word that the lady will be well treated."

A short time later Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli departed on horseback; Gimli, who could not ride, perched behind Legolas with his hands clinging firmly to the Elf's sides. Cierre, mounted on the remaining spare horse, was led away by the Rohirrim. Before long the two parties had passed out of each other's sight.

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Two days later Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli arrived at the gates of Edoras. With them was Gandalf, returned beyond hope from seeming death, whom they had encountered in the forest of Fangorn.

They were stopped at the gate by guards in bright mail. The guards were loath to admit them, at first, and some considerable argument was required before they seemed ready to relent.

"Here are the horses that Éomer, Third Marshall of the Mark, lent to us a mere two days ago," Aragorn said. "We bring them back, now, even as we promised him. Has not Éomer returned and given warning of our coming? And what of Cierre, our comrade, who was taken into custody by Éomer as surety against the return of the horses?"

"Of Éomer I have naught to say," said one of the gate guards, "but if by… Cierre… you mean the black fiend in the shape of a woman, then it is chained up in a cell." He spat upon the ground. "The evil thing slew a Rider and maimed Gríma, counsellor to Théoden King. As soon as Gríma rises from his sick-bed the foul creature will be put to death."


	2. It's all fun and games

**Chapter Two: It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye**

Cierre groaned, opened one eye, and struggled to raise her head. Her other eye refused to open. For a brief moment she was stricken with fear, remembering what she had done to the _rivvil iblith_ and believing that the same might have been done to her in revenge, but the pain she felt was surely far less than she would be feeling if her eye had indeed been gouged out.

Raising her left hand to her face, and exploring with tentative fingers, confirmed that it was only bruising and swelling of her eyelids, and their surrounding flesh, which was holding her eye shut. It also revealed to her that her arms were shackled – and so, she saw on further examination, were her legs.

Rusty chains, they were, and she guessed they saw little use. Strong, for all that, and she would not break free of them even with the aid of a Bull's Strength spell. Not that she had such a spell memorised, anyway; she preferred the more versatile Animalistic Power to increase her strength, her dexterity, and her resilience all at once – although by a lesser amount than the sheer brute strength bestowed by the single-purpose spell. It would not free her. But it would aid her if – no, she told herself, think of it as 'when' – they unfastened her chains. As would her Darkness spell; thankfully she had not cast either spell during that frantic flurry of action before they pummelled her unconscious. They would come as a surprise to those _waele rivvin_ barbarians when she struck to exact her revenge...

She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. Her lips were cut but, thankfully, she hadn't lost any teeth. Her jaw was sore but intact. Her right hand hurt, sharp stabs of pain whenever she moved her fingers, and when she brought it in front of her one working eye she saw that one of the fingers was crooked – broken, no doubt – and the Ring of Protection that had adorned the finger was missing. And breathing was painful enough to make her suspect that at least one of her ribs was cracked. At least the injuries were only physical; there was no soreness between her legs, and the fastenings of her breeches were loosened no more than they had been when she had rammed her thumb into the _rivvil's_ eye, and so she knew she had not been raped. It would take both her Cure Light Wounds spells to restore her, and even then some bruising might remain, but she'd be fit to fight.

Cierre opened her mouth to speak the words of the spell but then stopped herself short. No, it would be better to refrain for the moment. They'd be much more likely to unfasten her chains, and to be careless once they did so, while she was visibly battered and bruised and seemingly in no shape to give them any trouble. Let them underestimate her, thinking her helpless, and she would make them suffer for it. _Gaer zhal tlu mzil elghinyrr'kheln_…*

She heard noises from outside the cell door, a voice speaking in the guttural native tongue of the barbarians, and caught a glimpse of movement beyond the grille. Presumably her movements had been noticed. Nothing came of it, at least not soon, and she began to suffer from boredom. To pass the time she filled her mind with thoughts of how this barbarian 'city' would look with the thatched roofs blazing. She was just tiring of that entertainment when she heard noises at the door again.

Two voices, this time, and one of them was a woman's. Cierre didn't understand the words but from the intonations she judged that the woman was giving orders and the man was objecting. His final words, though, came in a tone of grudging acquiescence. A moment later the door was opened and a young woman entered.

She was tall, only an inch or so shorter than Cierre's five feet nine, and was slim and graceful in her movements. She wore a simple white robe with a belt of silver links, which probably counted as aristocratic finery by the standards of these primitive people. Cierre had seen the woman before, in the halls of the senile king of the barbarians, and had gathered that she was a relative both of the dotard king and of Éomer. Her voice had been almost the only voice raised in protest, other than that of Éomer himself, against the _iblith's_ suggestions that Cierre should be stripped of weapons, and then of armour, and then that she should be confined to a locked room instead of being treated as a guest. Alas, relative or no, her words had gone unheeded and the king had backed his _belbauar d'vulteth_ even against his own family. And human customs seemed to forbid assassinating a king who had become a liability…

Now the woman approached, across the cell's stone flags, bearing a bowl from which steam rose. Cloths were draped across her arm. She set the bowl down on the floor near Cierre, knelt down beside it, and lifted the cloths from her arm. There were tears in her eyes.

"I am sorry you have been thus mistreated," the woman said, speaking Sindarin slightly hesitantly, with the awkward inflexions of one not accustomed to using the language in conversation. She dipped a cloth in the bowl's contents – water, then, and not soup – and then began to clean Cierre's face, wiping away the smears of blood, and doing what she could to sooth the bruised and swollen flesh around Cierre's left eye. "The honour of the Riddermark is put to shame."

"_Bel'la dos_," Cierre said. "I thank you." She could think of seven ways in which she could kill this woman, even while chained to the wall – no, nine, for the bowl of water and the towels offered an additional two methods – and there would be nothing the woman could do to save herself unless she was far stronger than any _rivvil_ female could be without magical aid. Nothing except for one thing; to come with kind words and kind deeds.

"I would that I could do more," said the woman, "but I am helpless. Éomer, my brother, is imprisoned also, even as are you, and they will not let me see him. Only the word of Gríma Wormtongue holds sway in the Mark now. For the moment his venomous tongue is stilled, thanks to you, but he will rise all too soon." Her lips drew back in what was almost a snarl. "I wish that you had killed him."

"I might have done, had I not been restrained," Cierre said. "Who are you?"

"I am Éowyn daughter of Éomund, sister-daughter to Théoden King," said the woman. It took Cierre a moment to interpret the unfamiliar wording. The daughter of the king's sister; Éomer, therefore, was the king's nephew as well as being the third-ranked commander of the barbarian cavalry. And yet his words, and those of his sister, had been disregarded in favour of those of the _iblith_! This did not fit with what Cierre knew of the habits of barbarians. Was there some enchantment at work? It seemed a distinct possibility.

"What did Gríma do that caused you to wound him so?" Éowyn asked. She lowered her eyes. "Did he try to… force himself upon you?"

"He did," Cierre confirmed. "He put his hands on my… _arlyurlen_, and he tried to unfasten my breeches to touch my… _litarifa_." She gestured, as best she could with her manacled hands, at her breasts and between her legs to indicate the parts in question. Her dealings with the surface Elves of Faerûn had never involved sexual contact, voluntary or forced, and so she had a gap in her Sindarin vocabulary. "He told me that he would make things bad for me unless I took him to bed." She grinned savagely. "And so I took his eye."

Éowyn smiled back at her. "I suspected as much. His eyes dwelt upon me often, with lustful looks, and I feared what might happen if we were ever alone together. Yours was a just retribution. And yet…" and her smile vanished, "you shall suffer for it. He swore, as his wound was being tended, that he would make you pay. And he spoke with my uncle, before the poppy juice took effect, and then Théoden King decreed that you are to be put to death once Gríma rises from his bed." She paused and grimaced before continuing. "Already a stake has been erected, and faggots gathered, for you are to be burned as a witch." She swallowed hard. "I am sorry. It is unjust, it is a great wrong, but I cannot sway my uncle from this course… nor, these days, can I influence him in anything else. I would save you, if I could… but I cannot."

Cierre's lips tightened. So she was to die by fire? Well, at least there would be flame readily at hand, to set alight the thatched roofs, when she made her break. Yet could she still carry out that plan? She would not wish harm to come to Éowyn, now, and fire does not pick and choose its victims. And Éomer, who had proven himself to be as noble as Aragorn had said, and was now locked up in another dungeon; Cierre would not wish him to die helpless, trapped beneath a building in flames, even though his mistrust of her had brought them both to this plight. She would have to exact her revenge in some different manner…

She held up her damaged hand. "Would you bind my finger?" she requested. "It was broken in the struggle." If the bone was out of place when she cast the Cure spells it might heal crooked. That would impair her ability to wield axe, sword, or bow.

"Did you not understand? You are to be put to death," Éowyn said. "Your execution is being delayed only because Gríma desires to witness it and he has taken to his bed in pain."

"That is no reason not to bind my finger," Cierre said. "I am not yet dead."

Éowyn cocked her head to one side and stared into Cierre's eyes. "You have not yet abandoned hope, then?"

"_L'yibin kestal; l'gareth mora_," Cierre said. "The weak hope; the strong act."

"A good saying," said Éowyn, "and by it you have raised my spirits. I will act in such ways as I can. I will tend your finger, as you ask, but I will need to fetch something to serve as a splint. I shall bring you food as well."

"There is something else with which you could help me, if you would," Cierre said. She explained a certain necessity.

Éowyn's cheeks flushed red. "I shall see to it," she said. "I shall return as soon as I can." She gathered up the bowl, and the cloths, and departed.

Cierre sat with her back against the cell wall and rested. This was a bad situation, indeed, and her death loomed. Perhaps the best she could hope to achieve, by herself, was to take some of the barbarians with her into death. Yet she was not downhearted. She, the despised exile, was being tended by the niece of a king – only a _rivvil_ barbarian king, admittedly, but a king nonetheless. And, in this strange and primitive world, she believed she had made some true friends. Those friends would be arriving here soon and, she deemed, they would not be pleased to discover how she had been treated. Not pleased at all.

* _Gaer zhal tlu mzil elghinyrr'kheln_ – There shall be many corpses

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Aragorn set his sword Andúril upright against the wall and then addressed Háma, the Doorward of Théoden King, telling of the sword's lineage and cautioning the man against touching it. Then, as Gimli laid his axe beside Andúril, Aragorn spoke again.

"If all who enter must first, by the will of Théoden King, lay aside their weapons," Aragorn said, his brow deeply furrowed, "then surely the same rule applied to my comrade Cierre."

"Indeed it did, lord," said Háma, "and weapons of surpassing quality they were, that would not have been out of place beside these blades of legend. Even the knives from the sheaths in her boots were of masterful workmanship."

"Even the knives from her boots were set aside," said Aragorn, nodding his head. "And yet I am told that she slew a Rider, and injured the king's counsellor, and is condemned as a murderer. Am I to believe that, alone and weaponless, Cierre attacked the Men of the Mark, in their own halls, without good cause? When a hundred armed Men were within call? Only someone rash to the point of idiocy, or someone driven to desperation, would do such a thing. And Cierre is not rash."

"Except when she has to be," Gimli put in, as Aragorn paused to draw breath.

"I thought her so, to begin with," Aragorn continued, directing a brief glower at the Dwarf, "for when first I met her she set upon twelve orcs at once. She slew almost all, it is true, but nearly perished in the deed. Yet later I spoke of this with her and saw things differently. Had she not been driven by great need, she told me, she would have lured the orcs into the woods and picked them off one by one. She fought them face to face, all at once, because she believed it to be the only way she might save Boromir – as I had implored her to do. And thus, when I am told she is a killer who must also be a fool, I simply do not believe it."

Háma lowered his head and fixed his gaze upon the floor. "It is not my place to offer opinion on the judgements of my King," he said, "and I know nothing of what transpired within the hall. And yet I saw the dark-skinned woman, when she laid down her weapons, and she stood tall and proud and, though her countenance was strange, her bearing was that of a shield-maiden. I will say no more."

"Your reticence speaks in itself," said Aragorn. He turned his head to face Gandalf. "There is something deeply wrong here. This is not Rohan as I remember it."

"Things that are wrong need to be set right," said Gandalf.

"Indeed," said Gimli. "Now then," he said to Háma, "if all is as you wish, let us go and speak with your master."

Háma raised his head and looked at Gandalf. "Forgive me," he said, "but your staff, too, must be left at the door."

"Foolishness!" Gandalf said. "Prudence is one thing, but discourtesy is another. If I may not lean on my stick as I go, then I will sit out here until it pleases Théoden to hobble out himself to speak with me."

"You parted a woman alone from her only means to defend herself," said Aragorn. "Will you now part an old man from his support?"

Háma sucked in his lower lip and bit on it. He shook his head. "The staff in the hand of a wizard may be more than a prop for age," he said, "yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom. I believe that you are friends, and folk of honour, who have no evil purpose. You may go in."

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"And what of my companion Cierre?" Aragorn demanded of the white-haired, age-bent, King Théoden. "She gave herself into Éomer's custody on the understanding that it was to be temporary, only until we returned the horses that we had borrowed, and that she would be treated well. Now I am told that she is locked in a cell under sentence of death."

"She assaulted my trusted counsellor, my only friend," answered the king, "and savaged him like a wild beast. She attacked one of my guards, too, and slew him. It was an ill deed to bring such a creature, whose very skin shows her to be a servant of the Dark Lord, into the peaceful realm of the Mark."

"Her account is different, lord," Éowyn spoke up from her place at the king's shoulder. "He assaulted _her_ and she did but fight back. Thus she says, and I saw no falsehood in her."

Aragorn nodded. "So I thought," he said.

The king shook his head. "I tire of this," he said. His voice was indistinct and his head sagged. "Where is Gríma? I would have him speak for me."

"You do not need Wo… Gríma to speak for you, lord," said Éowyn. "You are the King of the Mark!"

"I am old and tired," said Théoden. "Bring Gríma to me. I need to rest."

"I am here, lord," called a voice from the doorway. Into the chamber came a pallid-skinned man, his left eye and a good portion of his head covered by a blood-stained bandage, and his clothes somewhat dishevelled as if he had dressed in haste. His visible eye seemed to glitter with malice as he looked at Aragorn and his companions. "These strangers have no right to tire you with their demands."

"We have demanded nothing, as yet," Aragorn said, "only brought warnings and offered counsel. But I have a demand now. Release Cierre."

"What right have you to make demands of the King of the Mark?" Gríma demanded, his voice almost a snarl.

"The right of law," said Aragorn. "Does not the law of the Mark provide that no-one can be condemned without a trial? And Cierre speaks not your language, and has only a smattering of Westron, and few in this land speak Sindarin. Perhaps you do, Théoden King, as I know that your father Thengel spoke that tongue."

"I do," Théoden said, "although I have not done so in many years."

"Did you question her yourself?"

"I saw no need," said Théoden. "Gríma related her black deeds, with his eye still streaming blood to confirm his testimony, and he is my trusted advisor."

"Then it was no fair trial," Aragorn declared.

"She gouged out my eye from my head!" Gríma spat out.

"And what did you do to push her to that extremity?" Aragorn responded. "I insist that she be brought forth to speak for herself."

"Battle looms, Théoden son of Thengel," said Gandalf, "and you will have great need of all the aid you can get. And one comes to your hall who, by Aragorn's account, is as mighty a warrior as anyone could wish on their side – and you throw her into prison. That is not wisdom."

Théoden raised his head and stroked his long beard with his fingers. "All this argument is wearying me," he said. "Bring out the black woman, as they ask, so that they can see her evil for themselves."

"There is no need, Sire," said Gríma. "Let her stay shut away in the dark where she can harm no man."

"Are my commands not to be obeyed in my own halls?" Théoden snapped. "Do as I say!" Gríma recoiled, his face twisting in shock, and as he moved a glint of silver showed at his throat.

Gimli's gaze sharpened and he stared hard at the glimpse of metal. He uttered a low growl, deep in his throat, and his fingers formed themselves into shapes as if he was gripping the haft of his absent axe. Legolas put a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed lightly, barely hard enough to be felt through the Dwarf's coat of mail, but it was sufficient to cause Gimli to relax slightly.

"I shall fetch her, lord," Éowyn volunteered, and she scurried off before Gríma could gather himself together sufficiently to protest.

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows moved up and down and a half-smile came to his lips. "Perhaps your influence is not what it was, Gríma son of Gálmód," he said. "I begin to see what has been going on here. Saruman has taught you certain techniques, has he not? Ways to sway the thoughts of those to whom you speak. Yet it must be hard to use them when the pain of an empty eye socket throbs and burns, distracting you, and weakening your control." He saw Gríma flinch and his smile grew broader.

"I know not what you mean, Gandalf Stormcrow," Gríma replied. He turned back to the king. "There is no need for you to concern yourself, Sire," he said. "Retire to your rest and I will relieve you of the cares these ragged wanderers bring."

"The threats on your borders will not diminish for being ignored," said Gandalf. "And I think, Théoden, that you are not so much in need of rest as Wormtongue would have you believe. Tell me, do you not feel more alert, and stronger, now than you did yesterday?"

"Perhaps I do," Théoden admitted.

"I thought as much," said Gandalf. "While Gríma Wormtongue lay abed, unable to pour his words of envenomed honey into your ears, you began to recover yourself. You are neither as old, nor as weak, as he would have you believe."

"Sire! My concern is only for your welfare," Gríma protested. "This wizard will have you weary yourself to no-"

"Silence!" Gandalf roared, and Gríma quailed before his wrath. "I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man. Hold still your lying tongue!" He raised his staff. There was a roll of thunder, the sunlight from the windows was blotted out, and the hall grew so dark that only Gandalf's white robes could be seen in the gloom. Even the fire in the hearth had faded to a sullen glow from dim embers.

"His staff should have been taken from him," Gríma said. "That fool Háma has-"

"Be silent!" Gandalf commanded, cutting Gríma off in mid speech. A flash of light from his staff lit up the room for an instant. Gríma cowered back, raising a hand to cover his good eye, and silence fell over the hall. From somewhere far-off came the faint sound of metal clinking on metal. Gimli cocked an ear and then nodded, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face, but did not speak.

The clinking ended. For a long moment all was quiet and then Gandalf spoke once more. "Now, Théoden son of Thengel, will you hearken to me? Too long have you sat in shadows and trusted to twisted tales and crooked promptings. There are dark times ahead, it is true, but not all is dark." He raised his staff and pointed to a high window through which could be seen, high and far off, a patch of shining sky. "Take courage, Lord of the Mark, for help is with you, and better help you will not find. My counsel is not for those that despair; yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you, that will be of great use. Will you listen?" The darkness faded, the fire roared up again, and light returned to the hall.

"I will listen," Théoden agreed. He was sitting noticeably more upright in his chair than when the party had entered the hall. "Speak, Gandalf Greyhame, and I will take heed."

"No, Sire," Gríma said, "listen not to this wizard. He does not understand that you are ailing."

Gandalf swung to face him, beginning to raise his staff again, but Gimli was ahead of him.

"You would have been wise to stay silent," the Dwarf growled, advancing across the floor with quick short steps, "and hope to be overlooked. I see around your throat a necklace that rightfully belongs to my companion Cierre. Take it off, and at once, or I will silence you with blows of a Dwarven fist." Gimli brandished the fist in question, made even more formidable by its mailed gauntlet, in front of Gríma's nose. As he did so Éowyn re-entered the hall, stopped, and stared at the confrontation. A smile spread across her face.

Gríma's hand went to his throat. He hesitated, for a moment, but then Gimli's fist drew back as if for a punch. Gríma began to remove the necklace with trembling fingers. "I took this as wergild for my eye," he claimed.

"It was taken from her before she was even shut away in the room where you later molested her," Éowyn contradicted him. "Are you a seer, that you foretold your injury and took the wergild in advance?"

"I gave you no leave to take the prisoner's possessions for your own," Théoden said, from his carved wooden throne. He rose to his feet and began to descend the steps that led down from the dais. Éowyn rushed to his side and offered him her arm. Théoden accepted her support, completed his descent, and stepped out onto the hall's stone-flagged floor. With every step he took his posture straightened further and he made less and less use of his walking-stick. "In what other ways have you exceeded your authority?"

Then, as Gríma stammered out a denial, Cierre entered the room. Gimli's eyes widened as he saw her, and his fist clenched still tighter, but he stopped himself before he swung. "Bah! You are not even worth striking," he growled. He took the necklace from Gríma's trembling hand and headed for Cierre. Two guards stood behind her, with swords pointed at her back, and they raised questioning eyes to the king.

"Let her take it, if it is hers," said Théoden. His snow-white eyebrows descended low. "I did not command that she be beaten. Who did this?"

"She was not beaten, lord King," one of the guards answered.

The king's eyebrows reversed their course and climbed up his forehead. "Do you contradict the evidence of my own eyes?" he asked.

"No, my lord," the guard replied, a slight quaver in his voice. "I meant only that no-one has laid a hand on her since she was chained in the cells. Her injuries were received in the fight."

"Fight? I was told of no fight," said the king.

The guard shook his head, an expression of utter confusion on his face, and explained. "But, my lord king, surely you must have known? It was in that fight that Déorthain son of Derngar was slain."

"How many did she fight?" Aragorn asked.

The guard looked to Théoden for approval before answering. "Six of us," he said. "We came to the rescue of Gríma and she resisted us mightily. She drove Déorthain's head into the wall and shattered his skull. All of us felt her fists before we felled her." The other guard, who had a purple bruise showing through his beard along the side of his jaw, nodded his agreement.

"This is not the tale as Gríma related it to me," Théoden said. "My judgement would have been otherwise had I known this."

"It is the tale I would have expected to hear," said Aragorn. He turned to Cierre and spoke in Sindarin. "I would say 'well met', my comrade, but this is not how I would have wished to find you. Had I known you would be treated thus I would never have allowed you to be taken away."

Cierre dipped her head. "It is not your fault, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," she said. "Éomer is indeed a man of honour, as you told me, and you were not to know that the old king had gone senile and fallen into the power of an evil counsellor." She turned her gaze to fix on Théoden and her eyebrows rose slightly. "The king stands straight, unlike before, and he no longer looks as foolish as he did. Has the spell upon him been broken?"

"You know it was a spell?" It was the turn of Aragorn's eyebrows to rise.

Cierre nodded. "Charm Person, or Feeblemind, or Suggestion," she said. "I have seen such things before."

"Very interesting," said Gandalf. "I must speak with you, young lady, but not now. There are words that I must have with Théoden."

"Later, then, _Ulath'elzaren_," Cierre said, bowing her head to him.

A crease formed between Gandalf's bushy eyebrows. "I have many names but that is not one I have heard before."

"I do not know the Elvish word," Cierre said, "for all on the surface of Faerûn, even the Elves, use the term from the human trade language. It is the designation for a mighty wizard."

"And you recognised me as such on sight?" Gandalf's eyebrows climbed.

"You look like Elminster," Cierre explained, "the greatest wizard of my world. Also a little like Halaster, almost equally puissant, but he is insane."

Gandalf laughed. "Yes, I definitely must talk with you," he said, "but, as I said, later." He turned back to face Théoden. "I trust you have reconsidered your sentence on this lady," he said, speaking once more in Westron. "I have heard nothing to show that she deserves death."

"If she slew Déorthain whilst defending herself against six," Théoden said, "then indeed there should be no such penalty. A payment of wergild to his family would be appropriate but that is all. What possessed me to decree such a punishment without even hearing the accused?"

"I think 'possessed' is an apt description," said Gandalf. "A shadow was cast over your mind, clouding your eyes and your judgement, darkening your spirit. That shadow is lifting and your eyes are free to see. Come, Théoden, step out from your doors and look abroad. Breathe in the fresh air and feel the cobwebs around you blow away."

"No, lord…" Gríma began. Gimli turned and punched him in the stomach, a solid blow that drove the breath from Gríma's body, and the counsellor doubled up and sank to his knees. A beaming smile spread across Cierre's battered face at the sight.

Théoden, with Éowyn at his side, followed Gandalf to the exit from the hall. Gandalf knocked loudly upon the doors. "Open!" he cried. "The Lord of the Mark comes forth!" The doors swung open and a keen gust of air swept in. "Send your guards down to the stairs' foot," said Gandalf. "And you, lady, leave him a while to me. I will care for him."

"Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter," Théoden said. "The time for fear is past." He went out of the hall with Gandalf. Éowyn hesitated, her eyes on her uncle, and then turned and went back into the hall to where Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas now stood with Cierre.

"Why have you not healed yourself, Cierre?" Aragorn asked. "Do you need more rest?"

"I had thought I might need to make an escape from this place," Cierre explained, as she donned the necklace that Gimli had handed to her, "and they would not guard me closely if they thought I was too hurt to be a threat." She was struggling with the necklace's catch, hampered by her injured finger, and Éowyn stepped up to assist her. "They would have been taken by surprise when I became fully fit to fight in mere seconds."

"Indeed they would," Aragorn agreed, "but no longer is there need for you to surprise them thus. You are free. Perhaps Théoden may require you to pay a sum in compensation to the family of the guard you slew but that is all."

"And that should be no problem to one who wears a necklace of mithril," said Gimli. "I did not know you were wealthy, Cierre."

"At the moment I own only these clothes you see," said Cierre, "for all else has been taken from me. Even the rings from my fingers. I think that is when this finger was broken, as they pulled off the ring, for I still wore it when I fell senseless and it was gone when I awoke."

"Then it was not Gríma Wormtongue who took it," said Gimli, "for had you not just taken his eye from his head? No-one could think of gold or gems at such a time. One of those guards you fought, it must have been, and we shall see that it is returned." He turned to glare at the two guards who still remained nearby.

"I shall ask King Théoden to have your possessions retrieved and returned to you," said Aragorn.

"Thank you, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," Cierre replied.

"_Jabbuk_?" Aragorn queried.

"It means 'male commander'," Cierre explained. "It is the rarest word in my language, for our leaders are women, and never before have I addressed anyone by that term."

Aragorn's eyes widened. "You honour me greatly," he said.

"No more than you deserve," said Cierre. "And now I shall heal myself." She spoke a phrase in her own language and pressed her hand to her heart. The swollen areas of her face returned almost to normal and the eye which had been shut opened once more. She repeated the spell, grinned, and began to remove the bandages from her finger.

Éowyn shook her head. "Do not do that, my lady, you will injure yourself further," she counselled, but then her eyes widened hugely as Cierre ignored her, produced an entirely uninjured finger, and wiggled it in front of Éowyn's eyes. "Béma!" she exclaimed. "How…? and your face… you are healed!"

Cierre gave a brief explanation of her healing powers, still hardly able to believe that something which was a normal part of everyday life back in Faerûn was greeted with so much astonishment here, and then went on to express her gratitude. "I thank you for your attentions, and your kindness," Cierre said, smiling at Éowyn. "You brought me great comfort and lifted my spirits greatly. I will call you friend, if I may, and I wish you well."

Éowyn smiled back at Cierre. "I would be glad for you to call me friend," she said, and she stepped forward, put her arms around the Drow, and embraced her.

Cierre flinched at first – she was not accustomed to being touched in such a fashion, and when a Drow embraces you then look for the knife in your back – but then relaxed and returned the hug. This maiden, who had tended her when she languished in chains, was not going to stab her in the back. It seemed that, in gouging out Gríma's eye, Cierre had made the perfect opening move towards winning Éowyn's favour. Not, perhaps, a conventional way of making friends but it seemed to have worked.

A smile came to Cierre's lips and her thumbs twitched. She still harboured vague thoughts of attracting Éowyn's brother Éomer, for he was tall and handsome, and Gríma had an eye yet remaining…

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Cierre donned her leather armour, now restored to her, and began to fasten the buckles. Aragorn was talking with Gandalf and King Théoden, and with Éomer who also had been set free, but Legolas and Gimli had stayed with Cierre.

"Your armour is of remarkably fine quality," Legolas said. "Light, and flexible, yet strong; as tough, I would deem, as a coat of Dwarven mail. The dyeing is marvellously subtle; the hues seem to shift and change in a manner that reminds me of the cloaks we were given by the Lady Galadriel. Your people are truly skilled leather-workers."

"They are," Cierre said, "but this is not of their make. It was made by humans, specifically crafted to serve the needs of Rangers in the wild, and it is called Greenleaf."

Gimli burst out laughing. Legolas tried to remain impassive, failed, and joined his friend in laughter.

"What did I say that is amusing?" Cierre asked. "Is 'Greenleaf', perhaps, a term used in this land for the male sexual organ?"

Gimli laughed even louder.

Legolas snorted. "It is my name," he explained. "Legolas is, after all, an alternative word for Greenleaf." Cierre had used 'Lasgalen' for 'Greenleaf' and, perhaps because Sindarin was not her native language, had not recognised the derivation of his name.

"When I speak to Men," Legolas went on, "and if a simple 'Legolas' will not suffice, I add the Westron translation," and he spoke the word, "to my first name. When formality is required I am Legolas Thranduilion."

"We do not style ourselves by the names of our fathers," Cierre said, "for among the Drow it is the women who rule. It is the names of our House that we bear – and I am forbidden to use mine, for when I refused to return to Menzoberranzan I was expelled from House Faen Tlabbar and named _Dobluth_, that is, Outcast. Thus I have called myself Cierre of Luruar since I took up residence in that land." She pursed her lips. "If I am to stay in this world, as seems likely, I shall need to find myself another name."

"You may yet find a way to return to your own world," said Legolas. "Mithrandir has not yet had time to consider your situation, for he has had to devote himself to the pressing concerns of the war that looms, but he will do so when he is able. He may well be able to help you."

"Mithrandir is the _Ulath'elzaren_, the great wizard?" Cierre queried.

Legolas nodded. "We have spoken of him to you before, but by his other name of Gandalf."

Cierre's eyes widened. "You told me that he was dead, and that there was no resurrection in this world," she said. "I take it that such does not apply to wizards?"

"Indeed so," said Legolas. "They are beyond the rules that govern normal folk."

"And, sad to say," Gimli added, "Saruman has taken that to mean that he has the right to rule normal folk for his own ends. He has abandoned the wisdom of wizards and seeks to set himself up as a Dark Lord. Well, we shall teach him the error of his ways."

"He was the master who taught Gríma to use Suggestion upon the old king?" asked Cierre.

"Aye," Gimli confirmed, "and Saruman sent the orcs that killed Boromir and captured Merry and Pippin. He has set his forces upon the Rohirrim and slain the son of King Théoden. Saruman sought to keep the king confused, and his will weakened, so that there would be no effective resistance. Well, that has ended, and the Rohirrim will ride forth to war. We will go with them."

"Are your Halfling friends captives of Saruman?" Cierre asked. "I had thought them to have escaped from the orcs but they are not with you."

"They are with the Onodrim," Legolas said, "the Ents, as they are known to Men, the shepherds of the trees."

"Ah," said Cierre. "Treants, they are called in my world. They are formidable. The Halflings will be safe with them – as long as they do not start fires or cut down trees."

"I am glad to hear that," said Gimli, "for I had never heard of Ents before. Gandalf's account of them was sadly lacking in detail and pressing him for further explanation was fruitless." He flexed his shoulders. "Well, perhaps we shall see the Ents for ourselves before long. First, however, we must help the Rohirrim destroy Saruman's orcs."

Cierre slipped on her left-hand Bracer of Archery and adjusted its fit. "I hope they will not expect me to fight on horseback," she said. "I ride but rarely and, although I can stay astride a horse and not fall, I must dismount to use bow or sword effectively."

"You would fight alongside those who imprisoned you and used you somewhat cruelly?" Legolas asked, with some surprise evident in his voice.

"I told you that I would consider myself one of your party until we agree otherwise," Cierre said, whilst donning her right-hand Bracer, "and so, if you fight alongside them, I will do so also. And the Lady Éowyn treated me well; more kindly, in fact, than any in my own world ever did. Lord Éomer spoke up for me, for he had given his word and he would not be forsworn, and he was thrown into prison himself for his efforts. I will fight for them, and gladly. Anyway," she added, as Aragorn came into the room and joined them, "fighting orcs is my trade. I look forward to fighting at your side; as long as we can get down from horseback first."

"Aye," said Gimli, "for it is orc necks that I would hew, not shave the scalps of Men. Give me solid ground to plant my feet and I will swing my axe beside your sword and axe."

"And I will match my bow against yours," said Legolas. "Although it will not be an even contest; by day I will beat you, and by night you will outmatch me. Only if the battle goes on for a full day and night will it be a fair test of skill."

"I hope it will not," said Aragorn. He was carrying Cierre's sword-belt, from which hung her sword and axe, and her bow and quiver. "I bring your weapons, Cierre, and you have leave from King Théoden to wear them. Gríma has been banished from the halls of Edoras and from all the lands of the Mark. No doubt he will flee to his master Saruman; I doubt that he will be received kindly, after his failure in his appointed task. If he even makes it there at all, that is, for he may pass out with the pain of his injury at any time. Théoden, however, was in no mood to let him remain here – and, had he done so, Éowyn would probably have slain Gríma herself."

"Do we ride soon?" Cierre asked. She buckled her sword-belt about her waist.

"We do," said Aragorn. He now wore a coat of mail, a fine suit of gleaming steel rings, and looked a very impressive figure indeed. "We ride forth as soon as all the Riders have armed themselves and readied their horses. Have all your possessions been returned to you?"

"Most of them," Cierre replied. "A few gems are absent. They may simply be lost, but they would have been easy to hide so that a quick search would not find them, and it is odd that every one of the missing jewels is an emerald or a beryl. I believe that some of my gold has gone, too, but I cannot be certain. I have not had time to do an accurate count of the coins I found in Undermountain and can only go by eye. All of the items that I truly value have been returned."

Aragorn pursed his lips and frowned. "I hope that it was Gríma who took the coin, and the gems, for then the only evil is that you have lost that which was rightfully yours. If they were taken by the guards in Théoden's household then that is quite another matter. It is not the way of the men of the Mark to be tempted by gold. Only one who had been corrupted by the Wormtongue would steal from a guest in his lord's halls."

Gimli shook his head. "Anyone can be tempted by gold, Aragorn, except, perhaps, Frodo and Sam. Aye, it is a shame that one of the Riders might have fallen into temptation, but it doesn't mean that he was disloyal to his king. Perhaps a kinsman of the guard that died helped himself to some wergild without his lord's leave."

"Perhaps," said Aragorn, "but it is a matter that we must leave until after Saruman's army has been defeated and the threat it poses is no more. Do you truly wish to ride with us, Cierre?"

"I do, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," Cierre said. "I think you heard me explaining my reasons. Also, the folk of this land might think better of me once they see me slaying orcs." She slung her quiver over her shoulder. "Does the Lady Éowyn ride with us?" Cierre had noticed that Éowyn's hands were calloused after the manner of one well accustomed to wielding a sword.

"No," Aragorn replied. "The king is sending the women, children, and infirm, plus a small guard, to the fastness of Dunharrow to wait out the war in relative safety. Éowyn has been set the duty of commanding over them."

"That makes sense," said Cierre, "but I had hoped she would ride with the army, so that there would be one amongst the Rohirrim that I can call a friend, and who could speak to me in a language I understand – for many seem not even to speak Westron, and I am sure her brother Éomer will have too many duties to spare any time for me. I will say Farewell to Éowyn, if I may, before we depart."

"I will resume your Westron lessons," Legolas said, "if we are able to ride close enough together for conversation."

"I thank you, Legolas Greenleaf," Cierre said, in Westron. Legolas nodded approvingly; Gimli chuckled, causing Aragorn to glance at him and raise his eyebrows.

"It might be well to concentrate on phrases used in war," Aragorn advised. "Legolas, the Men of Rohan have armour that I think would serve you well in the battle to come." He tapped his chest. "As you see, it is of fine quality – although not, of course, up to the standard of that worn by Gimli. The same offer applies to you too, Cierre, and I am sure that the Lady Éowyn would be able to find you a mail shirt that would fit."

"Thank you, _Jabbuk_," Cierre said, "but I am content with my Greenleaf." She used the Westron word and Gimli laughed again.

"Her armour of leather shares a name with me," Legolas explained to Aragorn, "and Gimli finds that amusing."

"Ah, now I understand," said Aragorn. "Well, Cierre, even if you do not require any armour, you should still go to Éowyn right away if you are to bid her farewell. Soon she will be too occupied by the tasks assigned to her to spare time for conversation. Go now."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Éowyn now wore a coat of mail, very like the one Aragorn was wearing except styled for a woman, and wore a sword belted at her hip. Her expression was solemn, and her hair was disarranged as if she had been running her fingers through it, but she greeted Cierre with a smile and warm words.

"I am glad that you have been set free," Éowyn said. "Once Théoden King was no longer under the influence of Wormtongue he was able to see the sense of your lord Aragorn's arguments. I assure you that my uncle is a good and just man when his mind is his own."

"Indeed he has been most fair, now that the Suggestion spell has been broken," Cierre agreed.

"Your lord Aragorn is a man of noble mien, wise and learned, and of commanding presence," Éowyn went on. "I understand that you entered his service only a matter of days ago. Is that right?"

It wasn't how Cierre would have described the relationship; she didn't regard herself as in Aragorn's service at all. She doubted if Gimli and Legolas regarded themselves as being in Aragorn's service either. It was close enough to the truth, however, in the terms of what seemed to be a much more feudal society than the Silver Marches. She decided not to quibble and contented herself with giving Éowyn an abbreviated account of her meeting with Aragorn and the subsequent events.

"You were fortunate indeed to fall in with such a man," Éowyn said. She lowered her eyes and a slight tinge of red appeared on her cheeks. "Tell me, has he mentioned aught of a family, or a sweetheart, awaiting him?"

"He has said nothing of such," Cierre answered, and she saw a smile beginning to light up Éowyn's face. "Alas, I believe that he is _do'ch_ – I cannot think of the word in Elvish – that is, he desires only other men."

"Oh." Éowyn's face fell. "Do you really think so?"

"It is possible I am mistaken," Cierre said, "but such is my belief. I too find Aragorn attractive, but his gaze has never rested on me in the manner of a man looking at a woman. I am not as fair of face as some, it is true, but there should at least have been _some_ sign there."

Éowyn looked at Cierre for a moment, her gaze running over the Drow as if she was assessing her, and then a smile crept over her face. "I suspect you are right," Éowyn said. "Now that you mention it, I noticed the same absence when he looked at me. Oh, well, in that case there is no use in my setting my cap at him. Perhaps my brother would stand more chance… but he is not that way inclined at all."

"That is good to hear," said Cierre.

"Oh?" There was a twinkle in Éowyn's eyes. "You are interested in my brother?"

"I regard him as handsome, certainly," Cierre said, "and he has proven himself to be a man of honour. On the other hand his first thought, on meeting me, was that he should strike me dead. Not an auspicious start to any relationship."

"These troubled times engender distrust of strangers, alas," said Éowyn, "but perhaps when the orcs of Saruman are no more then you can begin afresh."

Cierre nodded. "I shall slay them all, then," she said.

Éowyn laughed. She did not realise that Cierre was deadly serious. "I would like to talk with you more," she said, "but my duties press. And I understand that Aragorn is to ride to battle with the Eorlingas. If you are to ride with him you must go soon. There is just one matter that we need to deal with before you depart. Théoden King has decreed that you must pay a wergild of two hundred silver _sceatta_ for the death of Déorthain son of Derngar. I will take it and give it to his family at Dunharrow, if you have such a sum, and if not then I will stand surety on your behalf."

"I have ample funds, now that my possessions have been restored to me," Cierre assured her. "I have few silver coins, however, as most of my coins are gold. I trust that will be acceptable?"

"Gold? We use gold rarely in the Mark," said Éowyn. "One gold _sceatta_ is worth twenty silver _sceatta_. There is also a gold coin to the value of thirty silver _sceatta_ but such have not been minted since the reign of Goldwine, the sixth King of the Mark. If you show me your coins I will make an estimate of their value."

Cierre produced a handful of Waterdhavian gold dragons. Éowyn examined them, her eyebrows rising as she looked at the crescent moon over water on one face and the rampant dragon on the other, and then raised wide eyes to meet Cierre's. "These are twice the size of a gold _sceatta_, and look to be at least as pure, although I am no expert," she said. "They are as well struck as the coins of Gondor. I deem that eight of them would make up the value of the wergild, and more, and if you give me eight I will pay two hundred silver _sceatta_ to the family of Déorthain."

"Take ten," Cierre said. "I would not wish you to be out of pocket. If there should prove to be silver left over then donate it to the poor." Not that Cierre cared in the slightest for the poor, who were often dirty and smelly and who could not afford to hire her services, but she was sure that the compassionate Éowyn would feel differently. And Cierre very much wanted to keep Éowyn's regard.

Generosity was not a natural part of Cierre's make-up and, when she had first taken up residence in the surface world, she had begrudged every coin spent and sought to extract every possible ounce of value. In time she had learned that such behaviour was frowned upon; those who were open-handed were looked upon much more favourably and, as merchants were prone to give them better deals, they even profited overall. On the other hand those who were excessively generous were regarded as fools or as having some ulterior motive. It had been long before Cierre had got the balance right, by which time she was thought of by some as a skinflint and by others as a spy for the Drow of Menzoberranzan, and she had never been able to gain the esteem that she believed her deeds deserved. Here, however, she could make a fresh start.

Cierre was smiling as she left Éowyn and went off to rejoin Aragorn and the others. This world, so far, did not seem to be a bad place. Yes, she'd been indecently assaulted, beaten, and thrown into a prison cell, but those things had happened in Faerûn too – although, admittedly, not all on the same day. And against that experience could be set the worthwhile things she had found. True comrades, perhaps her first ever female friend, and foes to slay. Who could ask for more?

Her smile might have disappeared had she been able to understand the words muttered in Rohirric by some of the men she passed.

"What does it profit us, that the King is freed from the spell of Wormtongue," one said, "if he is now subject to the will of Gandalf Greyhame? See, that black and evil creature now walks freely among us and has put the Lady Éowyn under her spell."

"At least we are now to fight against the invading orcs," the man he addressed replied, "rather than cowering within Edoras like frightened children. If Gandalf has indeed ensorcelled Théoden King he is using his power for a worthy purpose."

"Are the Eorlingas to be used as mere tools in a war of wizards?" the first man retorted. "Saruman or Gandalf, what is the difference? Both surround themselves with creatures of Evil and seek to manipulate us for their own ends. It must not go on." He looked at the back of Cierre, who had walked past the Riders oblivious to the conversation, and scowled. "And once the threat of Saruman's orcs is no more we can turn our attention to those less obvious foes."


	3. And then the screaming started

**And then the screaming started…**

"There are humans alongside the orcs," Cierre observed. "That would be extremely unusual in my world. A few evil warlords recruit orc mercenaries, to bulk out their armies, but always the human forces are the important ones. And humans never serve with orcs; not even in the army of King Obould Many-Arrows, who is more civilized and honourable than some human kings I could name."

"The Men are Dunlendings, hill-men and shepherds, who have no great cities," Aragorn explained. "Their ancestors lived in this land before the Rohirrim came. They believe they have a claim to the land, and they call the Rohirrim 'the robbers from the North', and there has been intermittent war between the two peoples for centuries."

"And so they are willing to serve alongside orcs in the army of an evil wizard?" Cierre raised an eyebrow. "Do the _waela rivvin_ not realise that, if the wizard wins, the land will belong to him and to his orcs?"

"Apparently not," Legolas said, "and, unfortunately, it is too late to try to persuade them to desert his cause through reasoned argument."

"Hmm," Cierre said. "Not through argument, perhaps, but through fear. It seems to me that they are but lightly armoured, if at all, is that not so?"

"Animal hides, mostly," Gimli agreed. "A few hauberks, likely for the chieftains, but they don't look to be up to the standard of the mail coats the Rohirrim wear. Rings sewn onto leather, I'd say, not proper linked mail."

"So they'll be easier to kill, or badly wound, than are the orcs," Cierre said. "Good."

"You say that almost with triumph," Legolas said. "Why?"

"Because if we can kill or injure enough of them," Cierre explained, "those that remain will run away. It doesn't work with orcs, most are too stupid to picture themselves as the ones lying pouring out their life's blood on the grass, but it works with humans. And then we'll have reduced the enemy forces by a large number with only the effort it takes to kill half that many." Her teeth flashed white as she broke into a broad grin. "If we're lucky the orcs will try to stop them and then our enemies will be fighting amongst themselves for a time."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "You think we should concentrate our efforts on the Dunlendings?"

"Until they break," Cierre said, "and they will."

"You seem very certain," Aragorn said, "and yet you had not even heard of them until this moment."

"If they were determined enough to keep on coming, regardless of casualties," Cierre said, "they would have taken back this country generations ago, or else been exterminated in the attempt. No, if we hurt them enough they will flee the field."

"You may have a point," Aragorn said. "I shall convey your plan to Théoden King and to Éomer." He pursed his lips. "I think, though, that they may be more willing to consider the suggestion if they believe it to be my idea. I'll tell them the truth afterwards… if it works."

"If it doesn't, we'll probably all be dead soon," Cierre said, "but it will work." She spoke with absolute assurance and perhaps, even, a hint of glee.

Aragorn's eyebrows climbed fractionally. Something about Cierre's attitude struck him as slightly odd. He made no comment, however; the idea was a good one, he thought, and everyone reacted differently to impending battle. Instead he hastened off to present the plan to Théoden King.

Cierre opened her Lesser Bag of Holding and took out a quiver of arrows with barbed heads. She would keep those with armour-piercing tips for use against the orcs, a fair number of whom wore coat-of-plates armour, and use the wickedly barbed arrows against the lightly-armoured barbarians. They would cause terrible wounds – and that was exactly what she wanted.

She wasn't going to mention it to Aragorn – _rivvin_ could be so squeamish about what seemed, to the Drow, to be merely common sense – but her plan didn't depend merely on killing Dunlendings. The screams of the fallen, dying slowly and in agony, would spread fear through the hearts of the enemy – and Cierre intended to make sure that there were a great many screams.

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"To charge at the orcs would be futile, it is true," said Éomer, "for we would become bogged down, trapped, and slaughtered. Yet perhaps a lesser task might be accomplished. Aragorn suggests that we concentrate, at first, upon the Dunlendings and that they might be driven from the field if we can but slay sufficient of them. If we send a single éored, or perhaps two, to charge only at the Dunlendings… not to press home the charge, but merely to slay the front few ranks and then retreat to the Hornburg before we can become entangled…"

Théoden ran his fingers over his beard. "If the Dunlendings can be detached from Saruman's army that indeed would make our task easier," he conceded. "There is some merit in the suggestion. Yet the orcs will try to entrap the Riders, as soon as they see our attack, and losing a hundred would be a greater cost to us than losing a thousand would be to our foes."

"Indeed we must make certain that does not happen," said Éomer, "but we must act quickly, while there is yet some light yet to see by, and space between Saruman's forces and the walls. Once they draw close then there will be no room for a charge."

Théoden frowned, and stroked his beard again, and then came to a decision. "Take two éoreds and strike swiftly," he ordered Éomer, "and have one éored standing by as a reserve, to open the way for your retreat if they are successful in cutting off your sallying party. Do not go too far! Turn around as soon as the momentum of the charge is lost."

"I will heed your warning, my King," Éomer assured him, "and I will not exceed the bounds of due caution. We shall not be entrapped by the orcs." The young Third Marshall of the Mark wore a beaming smile; his delight at Théoden's return to his old, decisive, self far outweighed his concerns over the impending battle. He saluted his King and departed to organise the sally.

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Cierre found a vantage point on the wall that she felt would give her a good field of fire at the Dunlendings. It was still possible that they would angle across, and be replaced in this sector by orcs, but she could always move later if necessary. She kept a few armour-piercing arrows to hand, as well as those with barbed heads, in case the big orcs wearing coats-of-plates became the most pressing targets. Legolas took up a position nearby.

"You two will score heavily against the foe before they get close enough for me to swing my axe," Gimli complained. "I almost wish I had learnt to use a bow, but a bow short enough for me to manage would have next to no range compared with those great things that you Elves bear."

"Why do you not use a crossbow?" Cierre asked.

Gimli's brows furrowed. "A what?"

"A crossbow," Cierre repeated. She mimed operating one, believing at first that Gimli's lack of understanding was simply due to a gap in his knowledge of Elvish, but he watched her gestures with blank incomprehension.

Legolas, too, was baffled. "Cross… bow?" he echoed, pronouncing the syllables as if they were two separate and unrelated words.

Cierre launched into an explanation and description of the weapon while keeping one eye on the approaching enemies.

"It is recorded that the Balchoth, who attacked Gondor when Cirion was the Steward and were defeated at the Field of Celebrant by the Rohirrim under Éorl the Young, had large versions of such weapons mounted upon their wagons," Aragorn commented. "Also the Men of Rhûn, in the East, have been known to use such bows as you describe but they are slower to reload than a true bow and lack range."

"Using steel instead of wood for the arms greatly increases the power and range," Cierre said, "and there are arrangements of levers and ratchets which can make reloading quicker. Arrows can always be loosed from a bow more rapidly than bolts from a crossbow, it is true, but it can be a very useful weapon for one who lacks the height to manage a longbow. My people, who are all much shorter than me, often use small crossbows which can be held in one hand. I do not use them myself but I have one in my pack; I shall find it for you, Gimli, and teach you its use, when there is time."

At that moment the gate opened and Éomer's éoreds charged forth. Cierre fell silent, readied her bow, and watched as the Rohirric cavalry smashed into the oncoming Dunlendings.

At first it was entirely one-sided. The Dunlendings were dispersed, for they had been heading for the defensive wall at a run, and against a mass of horsemen they stood no chance at all. They were cut down in droves; slashed by swords, pierced by lances, and kicked or trampled by the war horses. Those who rushed to the aid of their fellows merely joined them in death. Yet before long the resistance became more effective.

A thrown hatchet struck a Rider full in the face and he fell from his horse and lay still. Six Dunlendings swarmed another Rider, who had pushed forward ahead of his fellows, and, though he slew two of them, he was dragged from his steed and hacked to pieces. A horse was hamstrung by a Dunlending, and crashed to the ground, and the Dunlendings fell upon its rider with clubs and axes. A Dunlending chieftain marshalled a scattered mob of a hundred men into a tight formation, their shields held close together to form a wall, and marched them toward the Rohirrim at a steady jog. And, to left and right of where the Rohirrim fought the Dunlendings, streams of orcish infantry and goblin warg-riders rushed to cut off the horsemen from their stronghold.

Then it was that Éomer gave a signal, and the éoreds wheeled about, and raced for the shelter of the Hornburg. The gates opened once again and the reserve éored emerged and thundered down the causeway. The commander called out orders and the troop divided in two, each half sweeping round to meet the flanking forces and drive them back, keeping open the way for Éomer's retreat.

Yet there was still peril; for as the horsemen turned their backs upon their foes the Dunlendings charged in their turn, a furious headlong rush that almost matched the horses' speed, and further waves of wolf-riders sought to harry the Rohirrim and bring down those at the flanks and the rear.

Then they came within bowshot of the walls; still too far away for the short bows of the Rohirrim, perhaps, but within the scope the great bow of the Galadhrim and the heavy bow of the Uthgardt.

Atop the wall Legolas and Cierre bent their bows and loosed. The bowstrings sang and death streaked down the valley at two hundred miles an hour.

A warg snapped at a horse's flank, its goblin rider jabbing with a short spear at the horseman, and then an arrow pierced the beast's chest and sank in up to the fletching. The warg collapsed, its howl of agony dying away into a gurgle as its lungs filled with blood, and the goblin rider was pitched under the hooves of the galloping horse and trampled flat.

Another warg, leaping to the attack, was hit in mid-air and landed in a limp and lifeless heap. A Dunlending spearman, bracing himself to meet a charging Rider, took an arrow in the middle of the back and went down. The heavy armour of an _Uruk-hai_ warrior proved no protection against one of Cierre's piercing arrows.

Cierre loosed eight shafts to Legolas' six, for in the gathering gloom her sight was sharper than his and she needed to take less time to aim, and nine wargs, three Dunlendings, two _Uruk-hai_, and seven goblin warg-riders perished. The Rohirrim hewed left and right as they galloped. Not all of the Riders escaped the fray but far more of their foemen fell.

Then the Dunlending chieftain, leading his men in an attempt to form a shield-wall that would cut off a section of the Rohirrim from safety, came within arrow-shot of the wall. Cierre selected a barbed arrow, took an extra moment to aim, and then she loosed.

The chieftain wore a short hauberk, ending scarcely lower than his waist, and Cierre's arrow smote home below the protected area. For a moment he froze, stunned by the impact, and then he clutched at his groin and fell. He was a brave and battle-hardened warrior but the pain of that dreadful wound was more than any man could bear. His cries of agony were pitiful to hear.

The shield-wall faltered. Two men hastened to the assistance of their fallen chieftain; Legolas put an arrow through the throat of one but Cierre aimed low, as she had before, and struck the other in the abdomen. Now two sets of screams could be heard across the battlefield. They would not be the last.

The men under the fallen chieftain's command wavered, the cohesion of their phalanx broken, and lost their direction. Some wheeled to face the enemy, as their fallen officer had intended, but others, bereft of leadership, continued on their original course. Then it was that Éomer led his éored to veer from the straight path of their retreat and charge into the gap that had opened up in the Dunlending force. Caught in disarray the lightly-armoured men stood no chance. They were, quite simply, slaughtered. Three of the Rohirrim horses went down, although one of the fallen Riders scrambled to his feet and was snatched up by the reaching hand of a comrade, and two Riders were speared and fell from their saddles. However, when the wave of horsemen had passed, a full seventy of the Dunlendings lay dead or critically injured in their wake.

The Rohirrim cavalry raced up the causeway to the gates of the Hornburg. Behind them the orcs swept up the valley like a tidal bore; the defenders unleashed a storm of arrows, once the orcs came within the range of the short Rohirric bows, but the orcs numbered so many that their losses made no impression.

Warg-riders harried the retreating cavalry, the beasts snapping at the horses' heels, and they brought down three horses. One Rider was thrown over the edge of the causeway and lay stunned, another was savaged by the wargs, and the third, cut off from the rest, found that his only route to escape the wargs lay in leaping from the causeway to the ground below. A warg leapt after him but landed dead with one of Cierre's arrows through its chest. The warg's rider abandoned his fallen mount and made for the Rohirrim. The man who had leapt from the causeway regained his feet and hewed the goblin down. He helped his comrade to rise and the two of them, with no other route to safety open to them, raced for the culvert by which the Deeping Stream passed through the wall. Behind them a warg, on the edge of the causeway, gathered itself to spring. Two arrows, one each from Cierre and Legolas, thudded into its breast less than a hand's breadth apart and it dropped dead on the spot.

The remaining wargs pursued the Rohirrim up the causeway ramp, passing out of the arc of fire of the archers on the Deeping Wall, but those within the Hornburg loosed their shafts to good effect. Two more horses and riders went down but the remainder passed safely through the gateway. The great iron-bound gates slammed closed; three wargs and riders, and a single warg whose goblin rider had been slain and now ran alone, made it through the gates before they closed. Men of Rohan rushed upon them with swords and spears and slew all the wargs in short order. The horsemen entered the castle and dismounted. The horses were sent off, under such guard as could be spared, to join the rest of the mounts in the fenced pastures behind the Deeping Wall. The men went to take up defensive positions on the walls.

Meanwhile the two stranded men made haste to reach safety. They scrambled along the course of the stream, passing in and out of the sight of Cierre and Legolas, with orcs and Dunlendings pursuing and others angling to get ahead of them. Most of the enemy force could not see the running men, or were more interested in the defenders on the walls, and thus those that pursued were but a tiny fraction of that great host; over two score, nonetheless, and the Riders would have stood no chance had they been overtaken.

Arrows from the wall cut down some of the pursuers. Cierre and Legolas leapt lightly up atop the parapet to gain a better angle for their shots as their targets drew close to the Deeping Wall. Both were hit by arrows from out of the orc host; one struck Legolas, but was turned aside by his coat of mail, while Cierre was hit by two arrows that likewise failed to pierce her Greenleaf armour. Other arrows whistled past them, missing narrowly, and they came down from their perches as soon as the Riders had reached the culvert and began to wade through.

"Is there no grating to bar passage through that opening?" Gimli asked a nearby Rider. The man did not know, this being his first visit to Helm's Deep, but another, a native of the Deeping-coomb, answered the Dwarf's query.

"Once there was, or so tales tell," said the Rider, "but it must have rusted away long years ago. There is no barrier now and our men will come safely home."

"Where men can pass, so too can orcs," Gimli observed, "and where two can pass, so can a thousand. We must seal that hole before it admits a host of foes." He hastened toward the stairs that led down from the rear of the wall. Cierre, despite having understood only a part of the Westron conversation, sensed his urgency and followed behind him.

Indeed those of the pursuers who had survived the arrows from the walls were now following their quarry into the culvert. An orc chieftain in the main body saw this and led a force several hundred strong toward the potential weakness in the defensive position.

Inside the wall the two Riders emerged from the culvert, drenched and gasping for breath, and were helped from the stream by friendly hands. Then, just as Gimli arrived, a third figure appeared; a Dunlending warrior. Water dripped from his battle-axe as he raised it to attack.

"_Baruk Khazâd_!" Gimli cried, and swung his axe. For once he had the advantage of height over a human opponent and he clove open the man's head. "_Khazâd ai-mênu_!" Two more attackers came through the culvert, orcs this time, and Gimli delivered two lethal blows in quick succession. Then there was a pause in which no new enemies appeared. "Ho, Men of the Mark," Gimli called. "We must stop up this rat-hole."

"Direct us, master," said a Rohir of mature years, grey of hair and beard but still hale and hearty, "for Dwarves are said to be cunning folk with stone, and we will provide the labour."

"Hmm," said Gimli. "We cannot shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our finger-nails, and so we must rely on what is to hand. Find heavy boulders first, such as will not be swept away by the stream, and pile them to form a foundation that will support the smaller stones."

No sooner had he spoken, and before any of the men could move to obey his instructions, more orcs and men came out of the culvert. This time they came in a flood, too many for Gimli to slay, and some managed to get out of the stream onto solid ground.

"_Ultrinnan_!" Cierre yelled, and she slashed the head from an _Uruk-hai_ axe-wielder. In a continuation of the move she drove her blade into another's throat. She kicked both corpses back into the stream. "Dead get in way of others, make them come slow," she explained in faltering Westron, as Rohirrim swordsmen slew more of the attacking force. "Throw in water." Her meaning was clear, even though her speech was ungrammatical, and the men followed her example. The bodies were swept into the culvert, impeding the progress of the further attackers who sought to use it to gain entrance to the fortress, and the next few who emerged came through in ones and twos.

Gimli met each with a remorseless stroke of his axe, frowning as he slew, for this was execution and not battle. Then there was another lull. Gimli left his position, a Rohir taking his place, and began to direct the men in finding and positioning suitable boulders. And then, again, a wave of new foes burst from the culvert. The guard was killed, and so too was a man carrying a boulder, but another Rohir used a thirty-pound rock to dash out the brains of the orc who had slain his colleague and Cierre killed two orcs and a Dunlending with successive strokes from her sword and her axe.

Cierre deduced that the commanders beyond the wall had realised that the floating bodies were hampering their soldiers and were holding back their forces until the drifting corpses stopped coming out. This would be a brief incursion; unless, that is, the incoming enemies could gain a foothold and bring the dumping of bodies and the work on the barrier to a halt. That simply wasn't going to happen, with armed Riders now flocking to the opening of the culvert, and Cierre decided she could spare the time to put the next stage of her campaign of terror against the Dunlendings into operation.

She sheathed her sword. When there was only one Dunlending remaining from this wave of attackers she chopped down with her axe Frost-Reaver to sever the man's right arm at the elbow. She plucked him bodily from the water, to the astonishment of the watching Rohirrim warriors, and struck twice more. Her blows took one leg off at the knee and shattered the other leg so that shards of broken bone projected out through his skin. She then pushed the man back into the stream, making sure that he was face up, and tossed his severed limbs in after him. The crippled Dunlending, crying out in shock and pain, thrashed around as he drifted helplessly into the mouth of the culvert.

"It more hard them get past him than dead man," she explained, in fractured Westron, to a nearby Rohir who was visibly shocked by her actions. She guessed that her true reason, to strike fear into the hearts of the remaining Dunlendings, might be thought of as unacceptable. "Here," she said, picking up a two-handed falchion dropped by one of the dead _Uruk-hai_ and handing it to the Rider, "make this stuck in hole for water."

"She means, jam that sword across the culvert mouth, laddie," Gimli translated. "Good idea, Cierre," he added in Sindarin. "We can use weapons to reinforce the rocks and, if we wedge them in blade uppermost, anyone trying to pull them free will most likely lose fingers." He began to bark orders in Westron to those Rohirrim who were acting as labourers.

The lull before the next assault was longer than the last. Cierre holstered her axe and began to pass boulders to the men putting them in place; she refrained from going into the stream, as she was reluctant to get wet, but was happy to assist in other ways. Those men to whom she handed pieces of rock marvelled at the ease with which this slim maiden handled the heavy boulders.

Eventually a new column of attackers waded up the culvert and found themselves faced with a waist-high barrier, topped with projecting sword points, and soon were driven back by thrusting Rohirrim spears. None made it through and the work resumed in short order.

There were no further attempts to get through the culvert. When Gimli declared himself satisfied the barrier was thick and strong and reached almost to the top of the culvert's mouth. Getting past it would be a slow and laborious task. The stream, able to penetrate the wall of boulders only as a trickle, was spreading out into a deep and wide pool. Eventually it would reach the top of the dam, and flow over it as a miniature waterfall, but Cierre thought it would be some hours before that stage was reached.

"Well, that should do," Gimli said. "No-one will come in that way now, not without a lot of hard, noisy, work, and the stream will gush through if they make a hole in the wall. It'll give plenty of warning. You'd best move the horses further away, Gamling, or they'll get wet feet before long."

"We will, at once," said Gamling, the grey-haired Rohir. "I thank you for your aid, Master Dwarf, and Mistress Elf."

"No need for thanks," Gimli said, "for we are all in this together."

"Same what he say," Cierre added. "We go back top of wall now. Farewell."

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"We lost fifteen men and sixteen horses," Éomer told Aragorn, "but the Dunlendings' losses were far greater. We slew more than our own number in the first clash and as we returned to the Hornburg I saw a body of Dunlendings, perhaps a hundred in number, in disarray and charged them. Three quarters of them fell. I would say that the Dunlending slain numbered, in all, little short of four hundred. Our reserve éored slew many orcs, as they cleared the way for our withdrawal, and then there are those slain by the archers – especially your two Elven friends. Never have I seen such skill. Baldheort and Gárod, my two Riders who fell from the causeway, attribute their safe return to the arrows of the Elves and sing their praises to all who will listen."

"I hope that this will serve to show those who distrust Cierre because of her black skin that their fears are unfounded," Aragorn said. "I have found her to be staunch and true, brave and able to bear privation without complaint, and skilful in battle. Indeed the thought that we could break the will of the Dunlendings, could we but slay a sufficient number of them, came from her and not from me."

"And a good thought it was," Éomer said, "for they will have lost heart after the drubbing we gave them. I would estimate that we have slain a fifth part of the Dunlending contingent. Could we but mount two more such charges, or perhaps even one, I would wager heavily that those remaining would break and flee the field. There will be no opportunity for a further mounted sally, alas, but when they assault the walls many more of them will perish. It would not surprise me if the Dunlendings do, indeed, slip away from the enemy ranks during the night."

"Cierre hopes that such desertion will result in conflict between orcs and men," Aragorn said, "and that would be yet more to our advantage." He opened his mouth to say more but then saw that Cierre was approaching, her face grave, and her manner was that of one who bore important news. Legolas and Gimli followed behind her; Gimli held in his hands the small 'crossbow', of which Cierre had spoken earlier, and was caressing its mechanism and muttering to himself.

"_Jabbuk_ Aragorn," Cierre said, speaking Sindarin, "the orcs are bringing a battering ram up the valley. A mighty engine, made from the trunks of two tall trees, mounted on great wheels and propelled by many men and orcs."

Aragorn and Éomer looked out across the dark battlefield. It was full night now and the moon, low in the sky and less than half full, shed but little light. "I see nothing," Éomer said, also in Sindarin, but slowly, for he was unaccustomed to the language and needed to take time to choose his words. "Only the glow from torches carried by the Dunlendings and glints of moonlight upon uplifted blades."

"Cierre's eyes are far sharper in the dark than those of any Man, or even the Elves of Middle Earth," Aragorn said. "I have seen proof enough of this. If she says they bring a battering ram then indeed a battering ram is on its way toward us."

"I cannot make it out clearly in this light," Legolas said, "but I can see that something comes, something big, and the ranks of the enemy part to let it pass as tall grass parts when a hunting wolf slips through."

"And I can feel its vibrations in the stone," said Gimli. "It's big, and it's heavy, and I doubt the gates of your keep will withstand its blows for long."

"Then we must act to forestall this attack," said Éomer. "Will your arrows serve to keep it at bay, do you think?"

Cierre shook her head. "Only the foot of the ramp is within sight of this wall," she said, "and there will be only a short time in which we can loose our shafts at those who propel the ram before it passes out of sight. They are protected by large shields and we will have to aim carefully. Legolas and I might slay some half dozen each, I would think, but there are plenty to take up the task in their stead."

"That is my opinion also," Legolas said. "In truth, as it is darker now than when we shot at the warg-riders, I think I would be lucky to slay six."

"I have arrows that burst into flame on striking a target," Cierre added, "but the fires, on such solid wood, will take long to catch and would be easily extinguished. And I have only eight of those arrows."

"We could make our own fire arrows, with tow or straw fastened behind the points," Éomer said, "but it is true the flames would take long to set light to tree-trunks. What if you came into the Hornburg and used your bow from the arrow-slits above the ramp?"

Again Cierre shook her head. "It would be of little help, Lord Éomer," she said, "for the crews would need only to hold their shields over their heads like a roof. Arrows from my Uthgardt bow will pierce shields, it is true, but at that distance they will not strike with force enough to slay the men behind them."

"Then we must sally forth and slay them at the point of the sword," said Aragorn.

"I would be honoured to have you fight beside me, Lord Aragorn," Éomer said, "and your valiant companions too." Aragorn looked to his comrades.

"With pleasure, Lord Éomer," Cierre said. Her expression was one of fierce joy.

"Aye, I'll be glad to swing my axe at your side," said Gimli. "Once we slay the crew the ram will run backward down the slope. It should be easy enough to ensure that it veers to the side and goes over the edge. They'll not easily get it back, especially if the wheels shatter in the fall, and that will be an end to the threat of the ram."

"I see the ram clearly now," Legolas said. "It will not be long before it reaches the causeway. I might perhaps loose a few shafts but, as Cierre has said, to little effect. Better, I think, to join you in the sally and use my bow at a range at which every shaft will slay."

Éomer led them along the wall toward the steps that led up into the outer court of the Hornburg. On the way he gathered a few stout swordsmen to join their party. He made a point of recruiting Baldheort and Gárod, now clad in dry clothes and quite recovered from their desperate dash for the culvert, and the two Riders gave warm thanks to the two Elves in Westron hardly better than Cierre's own. Legolas acknowledged the thanks in a manner most courteous; Cierre did her best to reply in like manner, although hampered by her limited vocabulary, and gave the men warm smiles.

They gathered behind a postern gate and, at a moment chosen by Éomer, opened the door and slipped out. From the postern a narrow path led along the cliff to join the causeway beside the main gate. Éomer led them along the path until the causeway came into view.

The ram was in sight, nearing the top of the ramp and the gates, hauled by two teams of _Uruk-hai_ taller and broader than any orcs Cierre had seen in Faerûn. Along the length of the tree-trunks bars had been driven into the wood to form handles; tall men used the handholds to push the great ram up the slope. They bore great round shields and indeed would have been difficult to slay with arrows from distance. More orcs and men walked alongside and ahead of the ram as a protective screen.

Éomer waited a few moments, until the ram was close at hand, and then drew sword and led the charge. Legolas held back, remaining on the path, where he could use his bow to best effect.

"Gúthwinë!" Éomer cried. "Gúthwinë for the Mark!" His sword crashed down upon the head of an orc and slew it before the creature could even realise that it was under attack. Éomer moved on and rammed his blade through the chest of a Dunlending warrior.

"Andúril!" cried Aragorn. "Andúril for the Dúnedain!" He struck right and left and a foeman fell with every blow.

"_Baruk Khazâd_! _Khazâd ai-mênu_!" Gimli's axe swept across and shattered the thigh-bone of an orc. As the foe toppled Gimli struck again, slicing across the stomach of another orc, and then he delivered a finishing blow to the head of his first target.

"_Ultrinnan_!" Cierre's war-cry rang out as she sliced across the throat of a hammer-wielding orc. She slipped past the toppling body and reached the front of the ram. Her sword slashed across the nearest drag-rope, severing it, and the orcs hauling on the rope staggered forward as the tension was released. Some fell flat on their faces. The ram slewed off-course as those on the far side continued to heave on their rope.

Legolas saw what was happening and began to loose shafts in rapid succession. He targeted the team pushing the ram, working his way along the line, aiming at whatever spots were unprotected by shields or armour, not bothering whether or not the wound was fatal as long as it disabled. The ram slewed around further; by the time those on the far side stopped trying to move the ram forward, and changed to simply keeping it from slipping back, it was at an angle of over thirty degrees.

Aragorn and Éomer, with the Rohirrim swordsmen at their back, slew or drove away all of the escorting force. Gimli waded through the line of the near-side hauling team, slaying all still on their feet, and chopping down at those on the ground as they tried to rise. Legolas, who had incapacitated all along the near side of the ram, now loosed his arrows at any lower down the ramp who tried either to join the fray or to take the place of the fallen at the sides of the ram.

Cierre ran down the ramp, along the cleared side of the ram, lopping off a hand that clutched at her, stabbing a wounded man who had managed to draw a sword, and running the flat of her blade across the eyes of one who had received only an arrow through the calf from Legolas. Only the Elf saw what she had done, and wondered at it, for it seemed that she was foolishly sparing one who could still be a threat; yet the man screamed, and clutched at his eyes, and staggered away until he went over the edge of the causeway and plummeted to his death on the rocks below. She had blinded the man, Legolas realised, although he could not tell how it had been done. Then Cierre went around the back of the ram and began to slay those who manned the far-side handholds.

Aragorn and Éomer fell on those taking up the strain on the far-side hauling rope. The hauliers died, or released the rope to defend themselves, and the ram began to slip backward; slowly at first but then, as Cierre slew those straining to oppose the weight, the mighty engine gathered speed. Some orcs and men from lower down the ramp tried to impede its progress but its momentum quickly became too great to resist. Men were knocked from their feet, some dying as the great wheels crushed them, and then the ram struck the low wall marking the edge of the causeway, burst through, and fell to land on the rocks above the Deeping Stream. The wheels, as Gimli had predicted, shattered and the tree trunks cracked and splintered.

A great cheer sounded from the keep. The forces of Saruman on the causeway were dismayed, and faltered, making no move to rush to the attack. Éomer and Aragorn stood, facing them down, as lightning flickered over the hills to the South. Then, confident that their mission was accomplished, the sallying force turned to withdraw along the path.

From the ground there arose two orcs, who had been lying motionless and prone, either stunned or merely playing dead as a ruse. They hurled themselves upon Éomer, knocked him to the ground, and strove with him. Cierre hastened to his aid but Gimli was before her. Two strokes of the Dwarf's axe took the heads from the orcs and Gimli then helped Éomer regain his feet.

Cierre grimaced in annoyance. She did not resent Gimli's deed, for she was growing fond of the gruff Dwarf, but she would have wished for herself to be the one to rescue the handsome Éomer. She looked for a target on which to vent her frustration and saw a Dunlending warrior, bearing no visible injuries, rising to his feet. She sheathed her weapons and sprang upon the man. He wore a helmet adorned with ram's horns and, seized by a sudden fancy, she wrenched it from his head and set it upon her own. She then seized him by throat and groin, hoisted him into the air, and raised him above her head. With a cry of "_Ultrinnan_!" she cast him over the causeway's edge and sent him hurtling down onto the rocks below. Then she followed the others along the path to the postern gate.

And on the lower part of the causeway the watching Dunlendings quailed and dubbed her '_Dugurach_', the Black Witch, and they feared her.

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Now the attack upon the Deeping Wall began in earnest. Orcish archers sent up a hail of arrows, striving to drive the defenders back from the parapet, and scaling ladders were raised all along the wall. Those who had sallied forth to destroy the ram had no time to rest upon their return but had at once to join in repelling the assault.

Aragorn's party positioned themselves at a section of the wall that was being attacked primarily by Dunlendings. With the wall now under sustained attack the Rohirrim had to mount a guard at all points and, although Éomer agreed with Cierre's assessment of the Dunlendings as the weak link and would have liked to concentrate his forces against them, it was now impractical. Having perhaps the four deadliest warriors of all facing the Dunlendings was the best that could be done.

Gimli grumbled slightly, for he would rather fight orcs than men, but plunged himself into the fray with a will nonetheless. He tried out his new crossbow, shooting a man who was half-way up a scaling ladder, but mainly Gimli used his axe at close quarters.

Aragorn hurled himself at those foes that made it over the parapet, shearing through shields and cleaving skulls with Andúril, ensuring that none lived to secure a foothold atop the wall. Together with strong Rohirrim warriors he dislodged scaling ladders and sent them crashing back down to the ground twenty feet below.

Legolas and Cierre used their bows, save for some brief moments when Aragorn was hard pressed and they joined him to fight hand-to-hand, shooting down at those who raised and supported the scaling ladders. At times they would leap to the top of the parapet so that they could aim at those close to the foot of the wall. Whilst loosing from that vantage point they were vulnerable to arrows from the attackers; their armour protected them well but did not cover them completely. Legolas now wore a steel cap borrowed from the Rohirrim, and Cierre the horned helmet she had taken from a Dunlending, but an arrow could still strike in the face, the throat, or the legs. They took pains, therefore, to remain in that exposed position for no more than a minute at a time.

Cierre stood atop the parapet and took aim at one of the men raising a ladder. She loosed a barbed shaft and struck him behind the collar-bone, the arrow driving home to the fletching, and the man died almost instantly. As she was reaching to her quiver for the next arrow she felt something strike against the back of her legs, hard, knocking her forward so that she could not prevent herself from going over the edge.

Like a cat Cierre twisted in mid-air, grabbing for the parapet, but her reaching fingers missed it by inches and she fell. Desperately she tried to levitate, knowing even as she made the attempt that it was futile; for the ability of a noble Drow to levitate depended on the radiation of _faerzress_, and faded in its absence, and Cierre had been away from the Underdark for over fifteen years. She fell at undiminished speed – but not to the ground. A mere eight feet below the parapet her feet struck the scaling ladder, still being raised by its surviving crew, and she was brought almost to a halt. The ladder gave under her weight, she stumbled, lost her helmet, and fell again; this time she managed to catch the ladder with her right hand, hung from it for a second, and then she dropped the rest of the way to the ground and landed shaken but uninjured.

Unfortunately she was now stranded alone in front of fifteen hundred hostile Dunlendings, and some ten thousand orcs, with a twenty-foot wall separating her from her friends.

Those in Northern Faerûn who knew Cierre believed that she did not feel fear. This wasn't true; in fact she had simply learned, during her upbringing in Menzoberranzan when she had been incessantly tormented because of her height, never to let anyone see that she was afraid. She was scared now; however her reaction in such circumstances was always the same.

Attack.

She still held her bow, and her arrows had not spilled from her quiver, and so she used that weapon first. It wasn't efficient, for the foes were close at hand, but she had no time to change. Her first arrow pierced the throat of a man who was coming for her with battle-axe raised. Her second went into the eye-socket of a spearman and burst out through the back of his skull. A brawny warrior released his grip on the ladder, which had tipped too far to stay upright and was toppling to the ground, and he picked up a felling axe and made for Cierre. She shot him in the stomach and he went down screaming.

Legolas killed a Dunlending who was wielding a bill-hook and closing on Cierre. She had been swinging her bow to aim at that man but, seeing him fall, she loosed at a nearby axe-man instead and dropped him dead in his tracks. An arrow struck Cierre in the chest; however archery was not an art much practiced in Dunland and the archer was a mere youth, using a bow intended for the hunting of small game, and the light arrow bounced off Greenleaf and did her no harm. Her retaliation was with a heavy war arrow from a bow with a draw weight of two hundred pounds. The deadly shaft drilled through the youth's hide jerkin, shattered his breastbone, and tore his heart and lungs apart.

Gimli raced along the wall to where a scaling ladder was planted against the parapet. A Dunlending warrior, atop the ladder, was trying to force back the defenders and gain a foothold on the wall. Gimli hooked the man with his axe and, to the surprise of the Rohirrim nearby, dragged him forward instead of thrusting him back. The Dunlending went sprawling face-down on the walkway; Gimli left it to the surrounding defenders to finish him off, charged into the vacated space, and scrambled over the wall. The Dwarf leapt, boots first, onto the next attacker climbing the ladder. The man lost his grip, his feet slipped from the rungs, and he fell backward. Gimli disappeared downward.

Aragorn saw Gimli drop out of sight and he cried out in dismay. He looked over the parapet and saw that each successive man was dislodging the one below as he fell. Gimli was riding the wave of falling men down, falling only a few feet at a time, and he was managing to stay more or less upright with his back against the ladder. He landed on top of a heap of fallen men and, from there, fell to the ground. Aragorn caught his breath, sure that Gimli would have been badly injured, but in fact he seemed no more than winded. That was perilous enough, however, for there were men standing near the foot of the ladder who had been clear of the cascade of fallers. They made for Gimli, weapons raised, intending to slay him before he could recover. The ladder, which had slipped sideways as the men on it fell and which was no longer being supported at the base, fell flat. Meanwhile another group of the Dunlendings, nearly twenty strong, was headed for Cierre.

Aragorn regretfully gave Cierre up for dead and concentrated on trying to save Gimli. He readied his bow with all the haste he could muster. By the time he was ready to loose a shaft Legolas had loosed twice at those approaching Cierre, slaying a man with each shaft, and then changed targets to those who posed a threat to Gimli and had killed two of them. Aragorn killed a man with his first shaft, Legolas slew another, and by then Gimli had regained his feet and was holding his axe ready for battle.

The two men at the bottom of the pile did not rise, having been crushed under their fellows and either killed or severely injured, but the rest now began to struggle to their feet. Gimli put them down again, as fast as they could get up, with lethal strokes from his axe. Once all near him lay dead, or too badly wounded to fight, Gimli turned away from the heap of dead men.

"Hold on, lass, I'm coming!" he yelled to Cierre – but then halted, confused, and his axe-head dipped.

Cierre had vanished.

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Gethmadoc of Dunland led his men toward the strange black-skinned, white-haired, woman who had slain many with her bow. She was formidable, it was obvious, but not even the legendary _Forgoil_ warrior Helm the Eater of Men could have prevailed if nineteen Dunlendings had set upon him all at once.

And then there were eighteen; the Elf on the battlements had killed one with an arrow through the throat. Then the woman with black skin and white hair loosed an arrow from her bow; it struck the shield of Rhydderch son of Garnoc – and went right through the wood! Rhydderch halted, looked down at his chest with his mouth gaping open, and then a gush of blood came forth from his mouth and he toppled like a felled tree.

And then the Elf killed another and there were only sixteen. Yet that was still enough to slay even the strongest of warriors with ease, for there was nowhere for the woman to retreat, and they could surround her and hack her down. They were almost on her, and she would have no time to loose more than one more arrow, and…

Suddenly she was gone. In front of them was only impenetrable darkness, into which neither the light of their torches nor the light from the moon penetrated, so that they could not even see the wall behind the woman.

"Witchcraft!" exclaimed Gutho son of Tansad.

"Ignore it!" Gethmadoc growled. "She tries to hide but it will avail her not. Slay the witch!" He led his men into the darkness.

It swallowed them up. He could barely make out the torch he held in the hand of his shield-arm and the torches of his men showed only as dim red sparks. He heard a woman's voice, chanting something in a language unknown to him; he had no way of knowing that it was the spell 'Animalistic Power'. Gethmadoc made for the source of the sound with his sword held out in front of him. The chanting ended.

And then the screaming started.

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Gimli saw a shield rising into the air from out of the globe of darkness, turning over and over and then falling, and an arm fell free from the shield-straps as it struck the ground edge-on and then toppled over. A man staggered out of the dark, his clothing ablaze, screaming and beating at himself with his right hand; his left arm ended at the bloody stump of his wrist. A human head flew through the air and then rolled along the ground.

Cierre's battle-cry of "_Ultrinnan_!" rang out above the sound of male voices yelling in dismay or howling in agony. Gimli pursed his lips. It seemed that the Elf-maid didn't need his help after all. However he saw three orcs approaching at a run; they could see in the dark and might pose more of a threat to Cierre than did the men. He intercepted them, slew them with three strokes of his axe, and then looked for more foes.

The burning man reached another group of Dunlendings who knocked him to the ground and began beating out the flames with their cloaks. They made no move to join their fellows either in attacking Gimli or entering the darkness to fight Cierre.

Another man came out of the darkness, wobbling on his feet and uttering pain-filled groans, and he had a hand-axe wedged in his shoulder. It wasn't Cierre's axe; a Dunlending had struck out blindly and injured a friend. Always a risk, fighting in pitch darkness, but the Dwarves had developed many techniques to guard against such errors. The Dunlendings, it seemed, had not. Gimli waited to see what else would transpire.

Gethmadoc backed out of the darkness, his face contorted, flailing his sword to deter the deadly witch-woman from attacking. He had realised, far too late, that indeed Helm Hammerhand could have slain sixteen Dunlending warriors all at once – if they were blind.

The darkness lifted. Gimli saw Cierre standing amid a litter of fallen men. Some moved feebly, still alive, but with missing limbs or with gaping wounds on their bodies that would inevitably prove fatal. Two lay together, face to face, the sword of each buried in the chest of his fellow. Quite possibly Cierre, had she been more patient, could have contented herself with staying out of the way and waited for the Dunlendings to destroy themselves in the dark.

Cierre advanced toward Gethmadoc. Her bow was slung over her shoulder now and she held her sword and her axe. "Fight me," she challenged, in Westron. She slipped her axe into a loop at the left side of her belt, swapped her sword over to her left hand, and allowed it to dip until its tip almost touched the ground. "You fear me too big?"

Gethmadoc stopped flailing his sword around and brought it into a ready position. He stared at Cierre and the tip of his tongue showed and slid over his lips. No doubt he was thinking that Cierre would have to bring up her sword before she could defend herself and that would give him an advantage. Gimli, who had seen the trajectory described by the severed shield-arm, thought otherwise.

The Dunlending advanced, his sword poised, and then he started to bring it down. Cierre's sword flashed, too fast for the eye to follow, and came up under Gethmadoc's arm where it joined his shoulder. The blow lopped the arm off and sent it spinning into the air. Blood gushed forth, soaking the Dunlending's side, and before he could fall Cierre half-turned and then swung back, her sword parallel to the ground at waist height, putting all the strength of her body behind the blow.

Gimli's mouth dropped open. He had never seen a stroke delivered with such devastating effect. She had cloven through the man's body entirely and severed him into two halves. Chest and head, and hips and legs, fell separately to the ground in a welter of blood and gore.

"_Ultrinnan_!" Cierre shouted again. She drew her axe again and brandished both sword and axe above her head. "Fear me!" she shouted at the watching Dunlendings. "Fear me… big!"

"I think they do," Gimli commented, as the enemy warriors backed away rather than attacking. "You're fearsome indeed, lass, and that war-cry of yours is intimidating even when you're not cutting people in half. What does it mean?"

"It means 'victory'," Cierre translated. "You have an inspiring battle-cry too. It refers to the Dwarves, does it not?"

"Aye. 'Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!' The heart of the foe quails when he hears that cry."

"No doubt," Cierre said, "for if your people are all like you then they must be great warriors indeed." She flourished her axe again. "_Baruk Ilythiiri_! _Ilythiiri ai-mênu_!"

Gimli laughed. "_Ultrinnan_!" he cried, perhaps the first time that word had ever been uttered by a Dwarf anywhere in the universe. "Although," he added more soberly, as he saw a new threat approaching, "victory might be hard to come by right now. Those orcs will test us to our limits."

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"Weaklings and cowards!" Lûngaz, an _Uruk-hai_ commander over one thousand, snarled abuse at a Dunlending chieftain. "Why do your Men not attack?"

"They fear _Dugurach_, the black witch," replied Cadarn, highest ranking of the Dunlending chieftains present. "They would not shrink from battle against the _Forgoil_ but they cannot face her sorcery."

"I have seen no sorcery," Lûngaz growled, "only a trick with shadows. It is nothing against the magic of the White Hand."

"She clove Gethmadoc in two at the waist," Cadarn said, "and no woman could do that without the aid of mighty sorcery. You claim it is not witchcraft; well, then, send your orcs to attack her. Once she is slain then my men will resume their assault on the walls and will not stop until all the _Forgoil_ lie dead."

"Cowards!" Lûngaz spat out again. "The fighting _Uruk-hai_ will do what your pathetic Men cannot." He turned to face the group of orcs nearest to the Dunlending positions. "Gazhúr!" he bellowed to the contingent's commander. "Take your lads and kill that black _Albai_ with the white hair. And that filthy little _Gazat_."

Gazhúr shouted out an acknowledgment, flourished a mighty battle-axe above his head, and led his troop forward. They were almost two hundred strong and many of them wore coat-of-plates armour; an elite force that had been being held back ready to exploit an opening once lesser orcs and Men had gained a foothold on the walls. Now they advanced rapidly, eager to get to grips with the Dwarf and the strange Elvish woman, looking forward to dismembering and devouring the doomed pair.

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Cierre slipped her bow from her shoulder. "I have only nine arrows remaining in my quiver," she said, "and no time to get more from my pack."

Gimli put a hand down to the hand-crossbow, hanging from a loop at his belt, but made no move to raise it. "This little thing would never pierce that armour," he said, "and I have not yet made enough practice to have much chance of striking their faces. I'll stick to my axe."

"I could wish to die in no better company, _abbil_," Cierre said, as she bent her bow.

"Gimli! Cierre!" Aragorn's voice called, from the wall behind them. "Come up, quickly!"

Cierre loosed her arrow before turning. It struck Gazhúr just below the left eye and drove through bone into his brain. She then turned around and saw that a pair of ropes, knotted along their lengths to provide easy handholds and with loops at the bottom for feet, hung down from the ramparts. Aragorn, Éomer, and several Riders were positioned ready to pull up the ropes. Legolas stood nearby with his bow trained on the approaching orcs.

"Looks as if we're not going to die after all, lass," Gimli said, hastening to the bottom of a rope.

"It galls me to run away," Cierre said, "but there are too many for us to overcome and I am not yet ready to die." She slung her bow, took hold of the other rope, and went up hand-over-hand at amazing speed. By the time Gimli had been hauled up to the top Cierre had unslung her bow once again and joined Legolas in picking off the advancing orcs.

"How did you come to fall?" Aragorn asked Cierre.

"Something struck the back of my legs, _Jabbuk_," Cierre replied. "Someone's shield, I think. If I knew who had been so careless I would punch the man in the face." She loosed a shaft as she spoke and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in irritation as she saw the arrow glance harmlessly from a steel pauldron.

"It was not carelessness, I fear," Éomer revealed. "Gárod reported that he saw Heruwald son of Herubrand run past your position, although his éored is stationed at the far end of the wall, and swerve from his course so that his shield struck your legs. Gamling and Brytta confirm Gárod's words. Heruwald's wife is sister to Déorthain son of Derngar, whom you slew at Edoras, and I suspect he sought vengeance but did not dare attack you directly."

"I thought wergild was supposed to stop that sort of thing," Cierre observed. She loosed another arrow and nodded her head in satisfaction as her target fell dead.

"Indeed so," Éomer confirmed. "Perhaps he had not heard that you have paid wergild; he is not blood-kin and we departed from Edoras in some haste. Even so, he should have abided by the King's decision. I shall have him brought before Théoden to face judgement."

Cierre shrugged. Her inclination was to cut off Heruwald's prick and to make him eat it; however she sensed that her companions would think better of her if she exercised forbearance and, after all, the incident had worked out quite well and enabled her to further terrify the Dunlendings. "It did not turn out badly, and I took little harm," she said. "I said that I would punch in the face the one who knocked me from the wall. I would be content with that." She peered over the rampart. "Our enemies are sheltered by the wall, now, and I will have to mount the rampart to be able to aim down at them. Please ensure no-one else pushes me off." She sprang up onto the parapet once more, loosed two shafts to lethal effect, and then jumped back onto the walkway.

"No-one will push you from the wall while I am on guard, lass," Gimli said.

"I have not had time to thank you for what you did," Cierre said. She put down her bow on the walkway, slipped off her back-pack, and rummaged in it. "That you put yourself into deadly peril for my sake… it means more than I can say. _Abbil_ I name you, that is, 'Trusted Friend'."

Gimli looked down at the ground. "Aye, well, I could not leave you to fight all those foes alone," he said. "I'm sure you would do the same for me."

"Indeed I would, _abbil_," Cierre said. "_Ussta dro zhah dossta_." She produced a sheaf of arrows from her pack, divided it in two, and used one half to replenish her almost empty quiver. She went over to Legolas and handed him the remainder. "I see you too were almost out of arrows," she said.

"Indeed so," said Legolas, taking the arrows and re-stocking his quiver with alacrity. "The Rohirrim's arrows are too short, alas, and with them I can draw only to the nose instead of the ear. Aragorn gave me most of his, feeling that I could make better use of them, but still I was reduced to scavenging the spent arrows of our foes. These will serve me well. I thank you." He took up his position atop the parapet once more, loosed a couple of shafts, and then sprang down. "They are raising a scaling ladder," he observed.

"Good," said Cierre, "for then I can kill them without expending arrows." She shouldered her pack, leapt upon the parapet, and looked down. "Soon," she said, loosing a single shaft and then returning to the walkway.

A muscular Rohir approached the rampart bearing a heavy boulder in both hands. "Not there," Cierre advised him in Westron. "That way, two…" She couldn't think of the word for 'paces' and had to demonstrate. He didn't seem to understand what she meant and so she pointed to where she meant. "You drop there."

The man obeyed her instructions and sent the rock over the wall at the point where the orcs below were most densely clustered. It struck the raised shield of an orc, shattering the bearer's arm, and glanced off to strike a second orc in the chest. Both orcs were knocked from their feet, collided with others, and sent orcs sprawling or reeling out of position. Legolas and Cierre both leapt to the parapet and loosed shafts into the disrupted formation as fast as they could bend their bows. A couple of the Rohirrim emulated them, although one gave up after a single shot when he found himself close to overbalancing, and the orcs suffered badly while unable to effectively protect themselves from the hail of arrows. Fifteen perished before they could regain their cohesion.

Despite the punishment they had taken the orcs managed to raise the scaling ladder and mount an assault. They never stood a chance. The Dunlendings were still holding back and, with only one place to defend along this sector of the wall, the Rohirrim were always going to have a numerical advantage. Each orc who attempted to climb over the parapet was at once set upon by at least two defenders and slain almost instantly.

Cierre noticed that one bore a full quiver of arrows. She smote with the reverse side of her axe-head, bludgeoning the orc into unconsciousness, and then dragged him in over the parapet and away onto the walkway. Aragorn stepped in to take her place in the defence. Cierre stripped the quiver from the orc's shoulder, laid it aside, and then lifted the stunned orc above her head and tossed him from the wall onto his fellows below. "A dozen more arrows for each of us, Legolas," she cried. "The enemy are keeping us re-supplied."

"Against their will," Legolas said, "and all the more satisfying for that. I thank you."

Eventually the orcs stopped coming. Too few of the original two hundred remained alive for them to continue to press the assault. The survivors fled but most were cut down by arrows before they could get out of range. All along the wall the same story had been repeated. Twice the orcs had managed to gain a temporary foothold but had been repelled by charges by reserve groups of Riders before they could exploit their brief successes. Some dozens of the Rohirrim lay dead or injured but the orc dead, strewn all along the foot of the wall, must have numbered well over a thousand. The overwhelming numerical advantage of Saruman's army counted for nothing against the strong defensive position.

"The Dunlendings have a name for you, Mistress Elf," Gamling the Old informed Cierre. "They shout '_Dugurach_' when they see you atop the wall. That means 'Black witch' in their tongue. We of the Mark they call '_Forgoil_', that is, 'Straw-heads'."

"I not understand," Cierre said. "Legolas?" The Elf translated Gamling's words into Sindarin. "That is good," Cierre said. "I want them be fear me."

"To fear me, or to be afraid of me," Legolas corrected her Westron.

"I want them to fear me," Cierre said. "That right words?"

"Yes, that was the right way to say it," Legolas confirmed, "and you certainly seem to have got your wish. They seem to be terrified of you."

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"Your orcs have failed," the Dunlending chieftain Cadarn said. "The black witch still lives."

"If your cowardly Men had joined the attack we would have slain her," Lûngaz accused. "The White Hand will hear of your treachery."

"We came to fight the _Forgoil_, and we will do so," said Cadarn. "Your Master said nothing of witch-women. Why does he not come forth from Isengard and pit his sorcery against hers?"

"What sorcery? She hid herself in darkness, that is all," Lûngaz said. "Mere _Albai_ trickery. Put a sword or a spear into her and she will die like any other."

"She slays all who go against her," Cadarn said, "or worse, for she leaves men maimed to live out their lives as helpless cripples. No, while she lives we will not advance even one foot toward those walls."

"You treacherous weakling," Lûngaz growled. "These are but excuses. You want to keep your Men back from the fight and leave it to the _Uruk-hai_ to do all the work."

"And why not? A quarter of my people have fallen already," Cadarn said. There was, indeed, truth in Lûngaz's words. Cadarn had been shaken by the slaughter his folk had suffered in the brief but savage cavalry charge that had opened the battle. Saruman had promised them the return of the lands stolen long ago by the _Forgoil_, if the Dunlendings joined his army, but the chieftain foresaw that if the majority of his men perished in the assault the Wizard would renege on his promise. Only if a strong force remained could he count on Saruman keeping his word. "It is little enough to ask. Slay that one woman and we will return to the attack."

"Do not make demands!" Lûngaz bellowed. "Snivelling coward! You pitiful _Shara-hai_ are worthless! You do not fight. All you do is hide behind the _Uruk-hai_ and lick your wounds and whimper." He strode to where the man who had been set on fire lay, being tended by healers, and raised his huge falchion over the moaning victim. "Stop that damned whining!" Lûngaz snarled. "Useless weakling!"

"Leave him alone," Cadarn growled. "He was injured in your Master's service." His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"If he can't fight, and you won't fight, what use is he? Or you?" Lûngaz brought his falchion down and decapitated the helpless man. "Fight or die!"

Cadarn drew his sword. "Murderous pig! It is you who shall die," he shouted, and attacked.

Lûngaz parried the Dunlending's first blow with ease, and began to deliver a retaliatory blow, but then staggered under a sudden impact and the blow went wide. One of the healers had hurled himself at the orc's legs from behind. Cadarn seized his opportunity and rammed his blade through Lûngaz's throat. All orcs who saw that promptly attacked the nearest humans. The fighting spread rapidly throughout the host.

"Retreat!" Cadarn shouted, and other Dunlending chieftains took up the cry. "Fight our way out! The orcs are the enemy now."

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"The Dunlendings are fighting the orcs!" Cierre shouted exultantly. As she used Elvish few of those around her reacted at first. Then, as Legolas repeated her announcement in Westron, and as the conflict spread and became visible to those who lacked Cierre's night vision, the Rohirrim began to cheer. Those who still faced orcs climbing scaling ladders fought with renewed vigour. Conversely, the orcs faltered as their attention was caught by events behind them. Soon the entire attack had ground to a halt.

The orcish army fell into disarray as the Dunlendings hacked their way out in a desperate retreat. Many orcs barred their way. Others ran to harry the humans' rear. Those who left their positions in front of the wall were showered by arrows from the Rohirrim on the ramparts. Struck from behind, unprotected by shields, they fell by the hundred. Cierre and Legolas emptied their quivers, and retrieved spent arrows that had fallen upon the walkway and loosed them too, and between them slew two score orcs. And then the gate of the Hornburg opened and cavalry thundered forth once more.

This time it was the personal guard of Théoden King. A single éored, no more, but made up of picked warriors. Torches they bore in their shield-hands, to light their way in the dark, and they rode with couched lances. They struck the rear of the disordered orcs and cut them down like a scythe reaping ripe wheat. For a time they drove the orcs before them; then, as Captains amongst the orcs began to impose some sort of formation and mount a resistance, the éored wheeled about and returned to the keep. This time there were no warg-riders to pursue, for those few that still survived were far off snapping at the heels of the Dunlendings, and the Rohirrim retired in good order. A mere four horses had fallen, one of whose Riders was rescued and returned sitting behind a comrade, and more than three hundred orcs lay dead in their wake.

Along the walls, with the orc assault halted, some Riders took advantage of the respite to haul abandoned scaling ladders inside the walls to deprive the orcs of their future services. At Gimli's suggestion one group of Riders then lowered a ladder back into its original position – after Gimli had hacked half-way through several of the uppermost rungs so that they would collapse under the weight of ascending orcs and send them plummeting to the ground. Cierre and Legolas had themselves lowered over the wall on ropes and retrieved several quivers of arrows from orc corpses.

"_Jabbuk_ Aragorn," said Cierre, on her return to the top of the wall, "While this lull lasts, I would excuse myself for a little time and seek a moment's privacy."

"Of course, Cierre," Aragorn said, although his brow was slightly furrowed. "Whither will you go?"

"I would have thought it obvious," Cierre said, "for, unlike the men, I cannot simply relieve myself over the wall onto the orcs – and I really, really, need to pee."

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"Aragorn," Legolas said, after glancing along the wall to make sure that Gimli was still occupied in sabotaging the ladder, "I would speak with you."

"Yes? What is it, Legolas?"

"I… have some concerns about Cierre," Legolas said. "Her… ferocity in battle seems somehow excessive. She delights, not only in slaying, but in causing pain. I saw her blind a man, when it would have been easier to kill him outright, and shoot another in the… lower stomach when his throat was as easy a mark. It… disturbed me somewhat."

"I sense no malice in her," Aragorn said, "and her lust for battle seems to me no more fervent than that of Gimli."

"It is not the way of the Firstborn," said Legolas, "still less for an _elleth_. And Gimli slays without hesitation or compunction – but he slays. He does not strike to maim."

Aragorn pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "I see. You have a point. And yet I repeat that I see no evil in her. You say it is not the way of the Firstborn, and you may be correct, but I am reminded of my brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, and the way in which they wreak vengeance upon the orcs for the torments inflicted upon their mother. We do not know what may have befallen Cierre in her own land, before she came to Middle Earth, and what hurts she may have suffered, and her treatment on her arrival at Edoras cannot have helped. Yet I would remind you that Cierre told Éomer that she would be content merely to strike with her fist the man who caused her to fall from the parapet, even when she learned that it was no accident, and such forgiveness seems to give the lie to your thoughts. And I suggest that you say naught of this to Gimli."

"Indeed you are right, and he would not take it well," Legolas said. "Now I will let the matter rest, and will reflect on it further before I speak again, for I see that she returns."

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The orcs resumed their attack upon the walls not long after Cierre rejoined the others. The assault was furious but futile. With several scaling ladders removed the attacks were too dispersed to have any chance at all of success. The damaged ladder broke, exactly as Gimli had intended, and sent several orcs crashing down to suffer serious injury. After half an hour of taking casualties to no purpose the orcs fell back and contented themselves with keeping up a desultory arrow fire from a distance.

"This respite enables us to rest and regain our strength," Aragorn said, "and does them no good at all. No doubt they will resume their assault in time but unless they change their tactics their attacks will be futile."

"No foe has ever taken the Hornburg if men defended it," said Éomer. "They have taken fearful losses. I cannot tell how many remain but their dead must number in the thousands – and, of course, the Dunlendings have deserted them."

"Cierre," Aragorn asked, "how many of the foe would you say remain?"

"Their numbers are still too great for me to make an accurate count," Cierre replied, "but I can say that the size of their army is a little more than half of what it was when the battle began."

"The best estimates we had were that there were around ten thousand orcs, perhaps eleven thousand at most," Éomer said, "and that the Dunlendings numbered some two thousand."

"Twelve to thirteen thousand in all, then," said Cierre. "In that case I would say that we face now some seven thousand orcs."

"And when we rode forth from Edoras we numbered eleven hundred," said Éomer, "and we found a thousand Men of the Westfold already here, meaning that we were outmatched by six to one. We have lost scarcely more than a hundred and thus they outnumber us now only by three and a half to our one."

"Fair odds for a cavalry versus infantry battle," Aragorn mused, "and their morale must be shattered. If the Rohirrim ride forth when day breaks I believe the orcs can be swept from the field. Providing, that is, they have not used the hours of the night intelligently and constructed field-works to hinder our charges."

"I see no signs of such work, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," Cierre said, "and I have been watching for it. They dig no ditches, construct no breastworks, and erect no palisades. Had I been in command of them, or had they been led by King Obould Many-Arrows of my world, the siege would have been conducted very differently. Their commander is not trained in the arts of war. It is a mob, not a true army."

"Indeed so," Aragorn agreed, "and it is good for us that such is the case. I take it that you have received a formal education in military principles?"

"I have," Cierre confirmed. "Traditionally, among my people, only the males attend Melee Magthere, the School of Fighters, but I was such an abysmal failure at the clerical college Arach-Tinilith that the Weapon Master of my House persuaded Melee Magthere to accept me. I was schooled in the arts of war for nine years. For the last four of those years I was the victor in the Grand Melee." She broke into a wide grin. "I must confess, though, that I was no more than an average student in everything but the physical skills. Do not look to me for cunning plans that will win battles."

"Yet your insight, that we might detach the Dunlendings from the Orcs if we but weakened them enough, was a valuable contribution," Aragorn said.

Cierre dipped her head. "Thank you, _Jabbuk_," she said. "I am glad to have been of service."

"Indeed you have served us well, Lady Cierre," said Éomer, "as have your companions. It was a fortunate event for the Mark when our paths crossed. Why, if we had a hundred Elven archers like unto yourself and Legolas, and a hundred stout Dwarven axe-men as skilled as Master Gimli, there would be no need for the Men of the Mark to take any part in the defence at all. We could retire to the Hornburg, and rest, waiting to ride forth at sunrise."

"Alas, I suspect war marches upon the lands of Gimli's folk and also of Legolas' people," Aragorn said, "and they would have no warriors to spare for our aid. And Cierre's land is far, far, away."

Cierre bit upon her bottom lip. She briefly considered warning Aragorn and Éomer against trusting Drow, for she was well aware that the majority of her people would stab a human in the back for a copper coin or even just for the pleasure of watching him die, but decided that it was too complex a subject to go into at this time. It was, after all, highly unlikely that any other Drow had travelled from Faerûn to this world. "I shall return to my post at the parapet," she said instead, "and I shall watch out for any sign that the enemy are constructing defences against cavalry."

"And I shall go to my uncle the King and see how he regards the thought that we should charge out upon the orcs at daybreak," Éomer said. "Will you accompany me, Aragorn? Your counsel would be welcome and, I suspect, he shall ask if you can shed any light on what Gandalf may be doing."

"I would welcome a chance to speak further with Théoden King," Aragorn said. "Gandalf keeps his doings close but I suspect that he seeks Erkenbrand. Or possibly he has gone to consult with the Ents…"

The two tall Men ascended the steps that led from the wall to the side of the Hornburg keep and were admitted to the fortress. Cierre, accompanied by Gimli, moved along the walkway to a central position that gave her the best vantage point for surveying the whole of the battlefield. Legolas remained behind, not far from the stairs up to the keep, and began to loose shafts at a group of orcs who were gathering in the bed of the Deeping Stream. Cierre glanced back when she realised that he wasn't with them, thought about joining him, and then decided that there wasn't much the orcs could do there and Legolas had it well in hand.

A Rider spoke to her, his teeth gleaming behind his beard as he grinned widely, and although she only understood a part of what he said she gathered that he was praising her for her deeds against the Dunlendings.

"Thank you," she said, "but charge with horse kill many more than me."

His reply she found almost entirely incomprehensible. Gimli stepped in to translate. "He says that's true, and it is well that we reached this place while it was still light enough to mount those charges," the Dwarf said, "but your might and valour in the fight impressed him greatly. He wants to know how you managed to cut that Man in half."

Cierre decided not to mention the Animalistic Power spell. She might be popular with the Rohirrim currently but the fact that the disgusting Gríma creature in Edoras had labelled her as a witch, without any evidence at all, implied that these people distrusted magic users other than majestic bearded wizards. "Practice, one hundred yearen – years," she said, in only slightly mangled Westron.

The Rohir looked slightly taken aback and Gimli laughed. "These Men are not used to the lives of Elves," he remarked. "I'll wager he thought you were…"

His words were rudely interrupted by the roar of an explosion. The walkway over the culvert erupted, killing several Riders and injuring more, and a gap was ripped through the wall.

"_Vith'ol_!" Cierre swore. "They have Neverwinter blast globes!"

"Legolas!" Gimli cried, a hint of fear in his voice. The Elf had been knocked from his feet by the blast and lay unmoving for a moment. He was on the far side of the gap and cut off from them. "Ah, he's getting up," Gimli said, with evident relief. "I think he's alright. But we cannot reach him and now there is a path for the orcs to get behind us."

Quite a few orcs had been too close to the explosion and had perished. Hundreds more, though, flocked to the site. The rush of pent-up water through the previously blocked channel held the orcs back for a brief time but soon they would come storming through.

"To get trapped on this wall and surrounded would not be good," Cierre said. "Let us take the fight to them."

"Indeed," said Gimli. "_Ultrinnan_!"

"_Baruk Ilythiiri_! _Ilythiiri ai-mênu_!" Cierre responded, drawing her sword and axe. Side by side they charged down the steps at the rear of the wall, with a hundred Rohirrim following at their heels, met the vanguard of the orcs, and began to kill.

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Legolas was one of the last of those on the Hornburg side of the shattered culvert to retreat into the keep. Aragorn was busy treating an injured Rohir; he glanced up briefly, and nodded to acknowledge Legolas' presence, but didn't speak until he had his patient in a satisfactory condition.

"Have you tidings of Gimli and Cierre?" Aragorn asked, once he was free.

"They retreated up the Deep, leaving a trail of shattered bodies and severed limbs in their wake," Legolas reported. "When last I saw them they were with a contingent of Riders protecting those who were moving the horses into the caves. I have no fears for them; never have I seen weapons wielded with such skill and fury. Separately they are formidable; together they are a marvel. All who go against them perish."

"A chance arrow could strike home, as befell Cierre at Parth Galen," said Aragorn, "but barring that misfortune you are, no doubt, correct to feel confident in their prowess." He saw Éomer come into the room behind Legolas, wiping dark orcish blood from his sword, and rose to his feet to greet him.

"You are a healer as well as a warrior, I see," Éomer said.

"A Ranger, alone in the wilds, must be his own healer," Aragorn said, "and I have learned much from Lord Elrond. I will do whatever I can for your injured." He remembered Cierre being surprised that he, as a Ranger, could not replicate her healing abilities; perhaps it was something she could teach him? Assuming they both survived the battle, of course. He put the thought aside for another time and moved on to something more pressing. "How did your Men fare in the retreat from the walls?"

"Far better than I first feared," Éomer said. "The orcs were held back by the rush of water from the culvert, and the flooded ground had turned to mud that delayed them further, and all of the Men were able to get clear of the walls before the orcs could cut them off. When it came to swordplay we had the mastery. Some Riders fell, certainly, but far more of the orcs. Our Men retreated up the Deep in good order. The valley narrows there, and the sides are almost sheer, and a shield-wall cannot be outflanked." He grimaced. "I had thought this battle as good as won but that blasting-fire out of Orthanc has changed everything. If they blow open the doors of the keep we will face a bitter close-quarters struggle with no respite. The odds will be against us once more."

"I saw the orcs struggling to bring a wagon through the gap in the wall, manhandling it over the rubble," Legolas said. "I suspect that it contains more of their blasting-fire."

"Then we must make sure," Aragorn said, "that it explodes in a place of our choosing rather than theirs."

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The draught horses strained at the traces, urged on by the orcs, but made little headway at dragging the heavy wagon through the mud. The orcs' utter inexperience at handling a team of horses didn't help and the Dunlendings, who would have been invaluable in the circumstances, were long gone. More orcs shoved against the rear of the wagon, their iron-shod boots sinking deep into the mud and churning up the boggy ground even more, and gradually the wagon inched forward.

And then a fiery streak shot through the air from one of the keep's windows and a burning arrow thudded into one of the barrels that made up the wagon's load.

Immediately panic set in. Some orcs fled, some clambered onto the wagon and tried to extinguish the flames, and others simply continued doggedly trying to get the wagon to move forward. More arrows flew from the keep; shorter arrows, lighter in weight, but also afire. Some struck the wagon, some hit the orcs, and a couple found their mark and stuck into the barrels of blasting fire. Then another heavy arrow whistled through the air and struck a finger's breadth from the first. Wood cracked. Dark powder began to trickle out and came into contact with the flames.

The explosion reduced the wagon to matchwood and sent splinters hurtling through the air at lethal speeds. The horses were torn apart, as were all the nearby orcs, and the blast wave felled every orc within a hundred yards. Some rose again, groggy and holding their hands over their ears; most did not.

The Rohirrim broke into triumphant cheers. Legolas, however, simply sprinted through the keep and took up a position at an arrow slit facing the causeway. It was obvious that the orcs would try to use their blasting fire against the Hornburg's main gate, assuming that they had a further supply, and he wanted to be ready.

In fact it was a full half hour before another wagon rumbled up the stone ramp. A large contingent of archers preceded it, loosing a hail of shafts up at the arrow slits in an attempt at suppressive fire, but it was a doomed effort. Shooting up, at targets that were well protected, they could not hope to prevent the defenders from sending volley after volley of burning arrows down at the wagon. And when the first of Legolas' arrows struck one of the barrels of explosives most of the orcs turned and fled. Their captains' attempts to stem the rout simply meant that the majority of the archers and hauliers were still within the blast radius when the barrels exploded. Two hundred orcs, at the very least, were blown to pieces. The causeway was swept clean of attackers and painted black with orcish blood.

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"When first I saw the army opposing us, so great in their numbers and so savage in their reckless hate," Théoden remarked, "my heart sank and I felt sure that this would be a bitter struggle in which we should pay dearly. Yet now I look upon the host of the enemy and see them shattered. When dawn breaks we shall ride forth and set the seal upon a victory the equal of any in the history of the Mark. And much of the credit for that victory goes to you, Aragorn, for your wise counsel."

"I thank you, Théoden King," said Aragorn, "but in fact the thought that the Dunlendings could be broken, and made to desert the orcs, came from my companion Cierre. And it was the Riders of the Mark, with their skill and bravery, who made the idea work."

"Indeed my Riders have done credit to the Mark," said Théoden, "but the victory is not theirs alone. Your three valiant companions have done feats of arms worthy of the mightiest heroes of old. Had you brought me two full éoreds they could scarce have done more. Gandalf said to me that Sea-air…" he mangled her name badly, "would be a valuable ally and certainly he was correct. It shames me to recall that I threw her into prison at the urging of Gríma."

"And I spoke of striking her dead upon our first meeting," Éomer said. "A task I now know would not be one to be undertaken lightly."

"Indeed not," said Aragorn, "as Dunlendings and orcs alike have learned."

"I must admit I feel pity for the Dunlendings," Théoden mused, "for they were duped into war by Saruman's lies and have paid a heavy price. I wonder if any won free and survived?"

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The survivors of the Dunlending war-band cowered behind bushes and rocks, and on the reverse slope of a hill, as a body of Rohirrim marched past. A thousand or so foot and two hundred cavalry; a force capable of utterly destroying the remaining Dunlendings. Of the two thousand who had gone forth to join Saruman's army fewer than eight hundred had won free. Few were badly injured; those maimed by Cierre, and others who had suffered serious wounds during the attack on the walls, had not made it out of the Deeping Coomb alive. Many, however, bore light wounds and all were exhausted.

Once the Rohirrim had passed out of sight Cadarn rose to his feet. He had lost half of his left ear during the escape from the siege and his hair and beard were matted with blood.

"They will reach the stone castle at first light, or thereabouts, I would guess," he said, "and trap the orcs between two forces. Saruman's army will be wiped out."

"The orcs may take the fortress before those _Forgoil_ arrive," a warrior suggested.

Cadarn snorted. "Do you really believe that? You saw what happened when the orcs tried to slay the _Dugurach_. Two hundred of them perished and I did not see them slay a single _Forgoil_ warrior. No, they made little headway against the walls while we were with them, and I cannot imagine that they can prevail without us. They will still be hammering against the walls, achieving nothing, when the second force arrives and takes them in the rear. Saruman is beaten."

"Then all our men have died for nothing," said the warrior.

"Perhaps not," said Cadarn. "With Saruman defeated the _Forgoil_ will think that they have nothing to fear. In the South the Dark Lord is sending his armies against the white city of the Stonelendings."

"Indeed this is widely known," the soldier agreed.

"The treaty by which our land was stolen from us requires the _Forgoil_ to send aid to the Stonelendings, if called," Cadarn went on, "and I would think such a call cannot be long in coming. If the _Forgoil_ think they have crushed all who threaten them then they will send most of their Riders. That will be our chance to strike."

"They will not leave this land undefended," another warrior said, "and what of the _Dugurach_?"

"She is not of the _Forgoil_, and must only be passing through, like the mighty Dwarf axe-wielder who fought at her side," said Cadarn. "No doubt they also will go to the Stonelending city. It is my belief that the bulk of the _Forgoil_ cavalry will go south. With luck the Dark Lord will destroy them for us. If not… then the Riders will return home to find their capital city burnt to the ground and their women and children dead or our slaves."


	4. You can run but you can't hide

**Chapter Four: You can run but you can't hide**

Gimli's brows descended low and he shook his head. "This is not right," he said, as a Rohir woman snatched up her child and rushed away from the two non-humans. It was obvious, from the direction of the fearful glances the woman cast over her shoulder as she scurried off, that it wasn't Gimli who was the cause of her flight. "They should be doing you honour, not fleeing from you and hiding their children."

Cierre shrugged. "It was the same where I came from," she said. "It no longer bothers me."

"It's not right," Gimli said again. "Even some of the Riders are still wary of you."

"Yet others smile and greet me with friendship," said Cierre. "I am content enough. And your comradeship, _abbil_, makes up for a thousand frowns."

Gimli looked down at his boots. "Harrumph. Thanks. Um. Well, it doesn't look as if you'll be able to snatch some sleep with the women-folk as we'd planned. I suppose we'd better go on deeper into the caves."

"Indeed so," Cierre replied. "There should be just enough time for me to regain my spells before we must arise to fight again."

She gave Gimli a fond smile. Actually what Cierre really wanted, more than sleep, was a good fucking; victory in combat made her feel lustful and it had been a long time since she'd last had sex. She did not find Gimli sexually attractive, for she much preferred men to be at least as tall as herself, but she liked him so much that she would have been delighted to share her bed with him anyway. However his embarrassment at even the slightest discussion of emotions implied that making advances to him would be awkward, and might even cause offence that would damage their friendship, and she was not willing to risk that. And she wasn't going to approach one of the Riders until she knew more about their sexual mores; it had taken two killings, and the administering of a brutal beating to a lover who had talked of her disparagingly, to regain the respect she had lost with the Uthgardt through being too free with her favours in their eyes. She didn't intend to make that mistake again.

"I am puzzled by what you say about being used to such treatment," Gimli said. "Surely in your own world you are not strange to those around you?"

Cierre stopped smiling. "My people are disliked and distrusted by all other peoples of my world. And, I must confess, it is with good reason. Most of the Drow are warlike, often treacherous, and attack and raid the communities of the surface peoples all too often. Not all are like that, indeed the worshippers of Eilistraee are perhaps the kindest and most benevolent of all the denizens of Faerûn, and the Ranger Drizzt Do'Urden is a hero of honour and renown, but at least three fourths of the Drow would cut your throat for a copper coin."

Gimli's eyes widened. "Well it is that it was you who came here instead of them, then," he said. "Although… as I said about the culvert, where one can go so can a thousand. Should we worry about… less honourable members of your people following in your path?"

Cierre shook her head. "The magical doorway through which I came closed behind me and I do not think it will open again," she said. "Even if it did, I doubt if any would pursue me. I came through, not knowing where it would take me, only because the alternative was a fight against overwhelming odds. Those from whom I fled have no such pressing motivation to take the risk. No doubt they would like to kill me, and to retrieve this armour and the sword I wield – I took them from a fallen foe – but they would not follow me across worlds. I do not believe any other Drow will ever come to Middle Earth."

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"You surprise me, Halaster," said Drythaera, commander of the Drow invasion force. "You stubbornly refuse to open the main portal that would enable us to pass freely through Undermountain. Why, then, are you willing to grant Khareese's request to open the one through which Cierre fled?"

The wizard stared at her from out of the energy globe in which he was imprisoned. His beard bristled as if charged with static electricity. "If I open the gateway, more Drow will flood through," he answered. "I don't want that; I can barely stand you. If I send your companion to follow Cierre, at least that gets some of you out of my hair. And why should I care if one Drow kills another? If you'd wipe yourselves out, that would save me the bother."

"Humph. I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else you have said," the commander conceded. She turned to Khareese. "I do not approve of this excursion," Drythaera told the Red Sisters assassin. "The Valsharess commanded that Cierre be killed, it is true, but that was because she posed a threat to our operations. Once she was transported far away through that portal she ceased to be a danger."

"But the Valsharess has not countermanded her order," said Khareese, "and you do not have the authority to do so on her behalf. The order stands – unless you are willing to tell the Valsharess that you have called off the hunt for Cierre?"

"I have no intention of bothering the Valsharess over such a trivial matter," said Drythaera, "as you are, no doubt, counting on to get your way. And at least there will be some benefit. It will dishearten our enemies when they see that, once the Valsharess has decreed your death, then not even fleeing beyond the world can save you. You have my permission to pursue Cierre." Her fingers, shielded from Halaster's sight by her body, moved in the Silent Tongue of the Drow. '_Are you sure the wizard is not just trying to banish you permanently?_' she asked in sign. '_I trust him not._'

"Thank you, Jabbress," Khareese said. Her lips twitched into a fractional smile and then reverted to their previous tight-set, grim, expression. '_I have a Stone of Recall_', she replied in the Silent Tongue, using the commander to screen her gestures from Halaster. '_We will be able to return with or without the portal_.'

"And I suppose you'll take your squad with you," Drythaera said. "I am loath to lose their services but if I ordered them to stay their resentment would make them useless to me."

"We all have a blood debt to pay," Khareese said. Her right hand caressed the hilt of her envenomed short-sword. "Seldszar must be avenged."

"I still find it strange that you are so determined to avenge the death of a mere male," Drythaera mused. "I can understand his brothers' desire for vengeance but not yours. Is it not really his sword and armour that you seek to retrieve? The Frozen Blade, and Greenleaf, are treasures of great value."

Khareese shook her head. "I know it is not usually the way of the Drow," she said, "but Seldszar was not just my husband, and my lover, but he was also my best friend. He completed my soul. Without him I feel as if part of my very self has been ripped away. When I saw what Cierre had done to him it was as if icy claws had seized my heart. I will know no peace until Cierre's head hangs from my belt."

"Strange," said Drythaera, "but I will not stand in your way. However Cierre passed through the portal several days ago. She could have travelled many miles since then. Finding her will not be easy."

"I have thought of that," Khareese said, "and Halaster is willing to assist me. I know not why, and doubt his motives, but I am grateful nonetheless."

"You asked me quite nicely, and showed me respect," said the mad Archmage, "and so I will spare you a long weary trek. There's no need to follow behind in her wake; I'll send you ahead to the road she must take. It's even in darkness, sheltered from the sun; an underground tunnel – now won't that be fun? Lurk there in ambush, you just need to wait, and she won't get a chance to avoid her grim fate. If you want to kill her, and cut off her head, I'll give you your chance on the Paths of the Dead."

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The orcs cowered in the quarter-mile stretch of open ground between the Deeping Dyke and the mysterious forest that had sprung up overnight. Behind them Théoden's household cavalry advanced, backed up by the remainder of the Hornburg garrison on foot, and a host came forth from the caves at the head of the valley to reclaim the fields behind the Deeping Wall. To the east the valley's sides were too steep to climb. From the west came Gandalf, and twelve hundred Men of the Westfold led by the mighty Erkenbrand, cutting off the only avenue of escape.

Barely five thousand orcs remained of the ten and a half thousand that Saruman had sent forth. The corpses of their fallen littered the ground like the fallen leaves in autumn. Many of the orcs had cast down their weapons and their shields as they fled, forsaking all thoughts of battle in favour of flight, and now they were helpless to defend themselves.

The king's cavalry levelled their lances and advanced. From the gap in the dike marched a thousand swordsmen; at their head was a white-haired woman with black skin and a Dwarf wielding a battle-axe. A war-cry rang out from that group, one never uttered by Men of the Mark before in all the long years since Eorl the Young led them from the North; "_Ultrinnan_!" Gandalf urged Shadowfax on and galloped down the western slope like a deer that leaps sure-footed in the mountains. Erkenbrand's cavalry followed, more cautiously, and his infantry marched down the slope. On three sides the demoralised orcs faced forces too formidable for them to face.

The White Rider descended upon the orcs and the terror of his coming filled the enemy with madness. The orcs reeled, and screamed, and cast aside what weapons they still possessed. Like a black smoke driven by a mounting wind they fled, and passed wailing under the waiting shadow of the trees, and from that shadow none ever came again.

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Cierre seized Gamling the Old in a tight embrace and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek. He seemed a safe choice; he was probably married and, even if he wasn't and she'd inadvertently made a proposal of marriage, he'd be dead in twenty years or so and she could put up with a human husband for that long if necessary. "Thank you!" she cried, releasing the grizzled warrior and turning to the ranks of Rohirrim behind him. "Thank you all! You have maked me proud."

She clasped arms with several Riders who approached her, smiling, and exchanged pleasantries and answered questions as well as her knowledge of Westron permitted. A few of them seemed as if they were going to try to kiss her but she was able to fend them off with no apparent hard feelings. Eventually she was able to make her way through the throng, mainly by following in Gimli's wake as he plodded irresistibly onward, and rejoin Aragorn and Legolas near where Théoden King was talking with Éomer and Gandalf.

"Well met, Gimli, Cierre," Aragorn greeted them. "I am glad to see that you survived the battle unscathed."

"I took a head wound," Gimli told him, "but Cierre healed me. It was not serious. I saw Legolas knocked over by the blast when the orcs destroyed the culvert. Are you well, my friend?"

"I am," the Elf replied. "I was knocked from my feet but took no hurt."

"You seem in good spirits, Cierre," Aragorn remarked.

"I am, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn, in fact I think I am happier than I have ever been before," Cierre confirmed. "Did you hear the Rohirrim when we came forth from the caves? Many of them shouted '_Ultrinnan_' and to hear it, knowing that it was in my honour, filled me with great pride."

"I suspect many of them believed it to be your name," Gimli said.

"Yet still they did me honour," Cierre said. "And, also, I have seen a place of great wonder and beauty."

"We have indeed," Gimli agreed. "The Rohirrim think of those caves as mere storehouses and a place of refuge in war. Yet they are, in truth, one of the great marvels of this world! Vast, and beautiful, immeasurable halls filled with an everlasting music of water that trickles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight."

"They could house a city as great as Menzoberranzan and many times as beautiful," Cierre said. "I am privileged to have seen them."

"Happy was the chance that drove us there," said Gimli, "and I would delight in exploring them further."

"We shall do so together," Cierre said. "I cannot see the Rohirrim objecting after this past night."

"Aye," said Gimli, "I am sure they will grant us free access. Will you come with us, Legolas? You may think that those halls are fair where your father dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves aided in their construction long ago, but they are nothing compared with the splendours that lie within the caverns of Helm's Deep."

"My father's halls are underground out of necessity, and not by choice," Legolas said, "and I have no love for caves. Yet I will come, and accompany you in your exploration, for the enthusiasm that lights up both your faces shows that these caves indeed must be something special. But not yet. First we must finish our mission. Gandalf has a task for us, once we are rested; he wishes us to go with him to Isengard."

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It was a long ride, through the evening and the first half of the night, and then, after sleeping, continuing onward at dawn. Théoden and Éomer accompanied them, with a bodyguard of a mere twenty riders, for Gandalf had assured them they were travelling to a parley and not to war. Late on the next morning they reached their destination.

Isengard was a mile-wide circular plain, surrounded by a stone ring-wall, with but one gate permitting entry. In the centre of the circle there stood a tower that must have been five hundred feet high; not quite as tall as the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan but still impressive.

The rest of the fortress perhaps would have been equally impressive if it hadn't been devastated by assault and flood. Gaps were torn in the wall, the gates had been torn down, and the plain within the wall was a morass of bubbling pools with wreckage floating along drowned roads.

Cierre surveyed the scene and nodded her head. "_Xuat vith xuil lil Treanten_," she remarked to herself, remembering one of the first lessons she had learned when she became a Ranger on the surface of Faerûn; 'Don't fuck with the Treants'. A lesson Saruman had either never heard or had failed to take to heart.

Her companions seemed amazed; apparently they were far less familiar with Ents, as Treants were known here, than was Cierre – even though the local Ents seemed to be far more numerous than their counterparts in Faerûn. Théoden and his Riders gazed, awestruck, at the scene of devastation. Aragorn showed equal surprise, as did Gimli; only Gandalf and Legolas showed no sign of surprise.

And then they saw two small grey-clad figures, reclining on a heap of rubble, hardly to be seen among the stones. Heaps of empty bowls and plates in front of them implied that they had recently finished a meal. One seemed asleep; the other, with crossed legs and arms behind his head, leaned back against a broken rock and sent from his mouth long wisps and little rings of thin blue smoke.

"_Udos inbal muth l'sakphen_," Cierre said. "I take it that those are your missing Hobbit friends?"

"Aye, those are the young rascals," Gimli said. "Trust them to find food and pipe-weed even in the midst of such destruction."

The small smoke-breathing figure rose to his feet and bowed. He ignored Aragorn's group, for the moment, and addressed Théoden and his retinue.

"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!" he said. "We are the door-wardens. Meriadoc son of Saradoc is my name, and my companion, who, alas, is overcome with weariness, is Peregrin, son of Paladin, of the house of Took. Far in the North is our home. The Lord Saruman is within but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honourable guests."

"Doubtless he would!" laughed Gandalf. "And was it Saruman that ordered you to guard his damaged doors, and watch for the arrival of guests, when your attention could be spared from plate and bottle?"

"No, good sir, the matter escaped him," answered Merry gravely. "He has been much occupied. Our orders came from Treebeard, who has taken over the management of Isengard. He commanded me to welcome the Lord of Rohan with fitting words. I have done my best."

"And what about your companions? What about Legolas and me?" cried Gimli. "You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling – and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy that if I do not burst it will be a marvel!"

"You speak for me, Gimli," laughed Legolas. "Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine."

"One thing you have not found in your hunting, and that's brighter wits," said Pippin, opening an eye. "Here you find us sitting on a field of victory, amid the plunder of armies, and you wonder how we came by a few well-earned comforts!"

"Well-earned?" said Gimli. "I cannot believe that!"

The Riders laughed. "It cannot be doubted that we witness the meeting of dear friends," said Théoden. "So these are the lost ones of your company, Gandalf? The days are fated to be filled with marvels. Already I have seen many, since I left my house, and now here before my eyes stand yet another of the folk of legend. Are not these the Halflings, that some among us call the Holbytlan?"

"Hobbits, if you please, lord," said Pippin. His gaze fell on Cierre, and his eyebrows shot up, but he made no comment.

"Hobbits?" said Théoden. "Your tongue is strangely changed, it seems, but the name sounds not unfitting so. Hobbits! No report that I have heard does justice to the truth."

Merry bowed, and Pippin arose and bowed also, and the two Hobbits addressed Théoden with fair words. Their greeting turned into a long discussion, much of which was unintelligible to Cierre, until Gandalf brought them to a halt.

"You do not know your danger, Théoden," interrupted Gandalf. "These Hobbits will sit on the edge of ruin and discuss the pleasures of the table, or the small doings of their fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers, and remoter cousins to the ninth degree, if you encourage them with undue patience. Some other time would be more fitting for the history of smoking. Where is Treebeard, Merry?"

"Away on the north side," Merry replied. "He went to get a drink of clean water. Most of the other Ents are with him, over there, still busy at their work."

Cierre could hear the rumble of falling stone in the distance. The Ents, apparently not satisfied with the ruin they had wrought upon Saruman's fortress, were still demolishing the structure.

"And is Orthanc then left unguarded?" asked Gandalf.

"There is the water," said Merry. "But Quickbeam and some others are watching it. Not all those posts and pillars in the plain are of Saruman's planting. Quickbeam, I think, is by the rock, near the foot of the stair."

"Yes, a tall grey Ent is there," said Legolas, "but his arms are at his sides, and he stands as still as a door-tree."

"It is past noon," said Gandalf, "and we at any rate have not eaten since early morning. Yet I wish to see Treebeard as soon as may be. Did he leave me no message, or has plate and bottle driven it from your mind?"

"He left a message," said Merry, "and I was coming to it, but I have been hindered by many other questions. I was to say that, if the Lord of the Mark and Gandalf will ride to the northern wall they will find Treebeard there, and he will welcome them. I may add that they will also find food of the best there; it was discovered and selected by your humble servants."

Gandalf laughed. "That is better!" he said. "Well, Théoden, will you ride with me to find Treebeard? We must go round about, but it is not far. When you see Treebeard you will learn much. For Treebeard is Fangorn, and the eldest and chief of the Ents, and when you speak with him you will hear the speech of the oldest of all living things."

"I will come with you," said Théoden, and he bade a courteous farewell to the Hobbits.

The Hobbits bowed low. "So that is the King of Rohan!" said Pippin in an undertone. "A fine old fellow. Very polite."

The king and his entourage, together with Gandalf, rode off in the direction indicated. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli remained behind. Cierre chose to stay with them, being more interested in meeting the other members of Aragorn's party than in talking to an Ent, and she dismounted and followed the rest to join the two Hobbits.

"Well, well!" said Aragorn. "The hunt is over, and we meet again, where none of us ever thought to come."

"And we have much to tell you, and much to ask," said Merry. "We have learned a few things through Treebeard, but not enough, and you clearly have a great deal to relate. For a start, who is your companion? I have never seen her like before."

Cierre understood most of that and, before Aragorn could reply on her behalf, she bowed low. "Cierre of Luruar at your service," she said, in passable Westron.

The Hobbits returned her bow and her greeting. "Meriadoc Brandybuck at your service and that of your family," said Merry. "May I ask what people you belong to?"

"I would have taken you for an Elf except for your black skin and white hair," Pippin chimed in. "I've never seen anything like it? Are you really an Elf? Is your hair white with age? I thought that didn't happen to Elves. Are you from Far Harad, where the Oliphaunts come from?"

Cierre frowned. She had understood most of what Merry had said but Pippin's fast speech and multiple questions had confused her. "Translate, please," she requested in Sindarin.

"Cierre is of an Elvish people called the Drow, and her colouring is that of all her folk," Aragorn answered for her. "She comes from outside the bounds of Arda and speaks Sindarin but, as yet, has little Westron."

"I getting – I _am_ getting better," Cierre said. "Not understand only last part."

"Ah," said Merry. "I'm afraid my Sindarin is fairly basic; certainly not enough to carry on a conversation."

"And I know only a few words of Sindarin," said Pippin.

"You speak Westron, is good," said Cierre. "More I hear, more I learn."

"Well, Aragorn has answered our questions for you," Merry said, "although I didn't understand what he meant by 'from outside the bounds of Arda'."

"I do not fully understand myself," said Aragorn. "Cierre was transported to this world by magic and that has been a lucky chance for us. She was a great help to us in following your trail and has proven herself to be a warrior as mighty as any I have ever known."

"It's a long tale," Gimli put in, "and one that would go much better over a meal. You mentioned that you had provided food for Théoden's party; well, you would not be Hobbits if you had not kept plenty back for yourselves. I take it there is enough for your friends too?"

"Indeed there is, and it is provender of the finest, although the bread is some three days old by now and not at its best," said Merry.

"Will you have it here, or in more comfort in what is left of Saruman's guard-house?" Pippin asked.

"I won't go into an orc-house, or touch anything they have mauled," said Gimli.

"We wouldn't ask you to," Merry said. "We have had enough of orcs ourselves to last a life-time. But there were other folk in Isengard besides orcs. His gate-guards were Men; some of his most trusted servants, I think, and certainly they were favoured and got good provisions. Let us, then, go and have lunch. And, while we eat, we can tell you our tale and we can hear yours."

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"Then Boromir is dead," Merry said, with a sigh. "I feared as much. He was gravely injured and I didn't think he would survive."

"He died for us," said Pippin.

"Boromir save – saved – my life," Cierre said. "Orcs catched my arms, one comed at me with sword, Boromir throwed knife and killed orc." She was beginning to get the hang of tenses in Westron by now but was getting caught out by irregular verbs.

Pippin laughed, caught himself, and looked shame-faced. "I'm sorry, that was very rude of me," he said. "I shouldn't laugh at your mistakes. Please forgive me."

Cierre's fists had started to clench as Pippin laughed but his sincere apology defused her brief flare of anger. "You say sorry, is good," she said, giving him a genuine smile. "What I get wrong?"

Pippin, somewhat hesitantly and with several glances toward Merry, gave an explanation of her errors.

"So, right way is 'Orcs caught my arms, one came at me with a sword, Boromir threw a knife and killed the orc'. I am saying it right now?" Cierre asked, and then added, under her breath, "_Ele'udtila naut nindol vith'ez xanalress jihard ulu l'kultar?_" ('Why doesn't this fucking language stick to the rules?')

"That was perfect," said Pippin. "So Boromir saved your life? Is that when you met Aragorn and the others?"

Cierre had had enough of struggling with Westron, for the moment, and so she simply nodded. Aragorn took up the tale, recounting how they had followed the trail of the orcs until they encountered the Rohirrim, and then told of their reunion with Gandalf.

"We rode, then, for Edoras," Aragorn related, "and on our arrival found that Cierre had fallen foul of Gríma Wormtongue and been thrown into prison."

"The cur molested her, while she was unarmed, and she taught him a lesson," Gimli put in. "No doubt you noticed, when Wormtongue arrived here, that he wore a bandage over one eye? Or, I should say, over where one eye used to be."

Cierre nodded and gestured with her thumb. Merry and Pippin shuddered and grimaced.

"He deserved it, the scum," Gimli assured them. "Anyway, Wormtongue was going to have Cierre executed, as revenge, but Gandalf soon sorted things out when we got there."

"That reminds me," Aragorn said to Cierre, switching to Sindarin. "Gandalf cast a spell of Darkness as part of his breaking of the hold Gríma had over Théoden King. I saw you cast the same spell when you were fighting the Dunlendings. I had thought the spells to heal wounds were all that you could cast but that seems not to be the case. What else can you do?"

"I am no wizard, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," Cierre replied. "The spell of Darkness is something that all my people can do. I can cast it once only then, like the healing spells, I must sleep before I can do it again. There are only two other spells that I can cast; one surrounds an enemy with a dim glow of light, to make her an easier target for attack in the dark, and the other increases my strength and speed for a short time. I used that one when I fought the Dunlendings outside the wall, for I had to slay them all quickly while the Darkness lasted, and needed every possible advantage. It draws its power from the connection with Nature common to all Rangers and so I believe that I should be able to teach it to you."

"That would be useful, I am sure," said Aragorn, "although it is the healing spells that are of most interest to me."

"I shall instruct you in what to do before we next sleep," Cierre said. "You should be able to cast those spells when you awaken."

"I hope so," said Aragorn, "as long as magic works the same way in this world as in yours."

"I see no reason why it should not," Cierre said. "My magic works here. Also your horses are the same as ours, Men are the same, Dwarves are the same, Halflings are the same, Orcs are very much the same apart from being a little bigger and a lot stupider, and the only difference in the Elves is that the ones here are taller than in my world – assuming that Legolas is typical rather than being as unusual among his people as am I among mine."

"He is," Aragorn said. "Moderately tall for an Elf, perhaps, but by no means exceptional. You are tall by the standards of your folk, then? I had not realised."

"All the rest of the Drow are small," Cierre told him. "Rarely have I met another who came up even to the level of my chin. We are strong in proportion to our size, however, and an average Drow is as strong as an average Man. And I'm much stronger."

"Are the other Elves in your world also so much smaller than my people?" Legolas asked.

"They are shorter than you, but taller than the Drow," Cierre replied. "Most male _Darthiiren_ – Surface Elves – are about my height or a little shorter. A few are taller, although I have never met one quite as tall as you, and the Elf women tend to be shorter than me by at least a hand's breadth."

The Hobbits, bored by this digression in a language that they didn't understand, had taken the opportunity to rustle up more food. Cierre savoured the delicious scent of bacon and toasting bread and, when the Hobbits reappeared, accepted a second plateful eagerly.

"No mushrooms?" she asked, a grin on her face. "I thinked where there are _Sakphen_ – Hobbits – there are mushrooms."

"Sorry, Saruman doesn't seem to have provided his guards with mushrooms," Merry said. "I take it you like mushrooms?"

"I like mushrooms best food of all," Cierre said, between bites. "My mushrooms all gone."

"You know about Hobbits and mushrooms," Pippin remarked, "and you didn't seem in the least surprised to see us, unlike King Théoden. Are there Hobbits where you come from?"

"Yes," Cierre informed him. "They have land of their own, it call – called – Luiren, live in lots other –_of_ other – lands too. Hobbits in Men cities most of them are…" She frowned, stuck on a word, and asked the others, in Sindarin, for a translation.

"Thieves," Legolas supplied.

Merry and Pippin bristled. "Hobbits aren't thieves," Merry said, in an icy voice.

"That's a horrible thing to say!" Pippin snapped. He stood up, his fists clenched into tight balls at his hips, and he glared at Cierre. "You take that back!"

Cierre shook her head. "I am sorry," she said. "Not understand what I say wrong. Legolas give wrong word? Is…" she groped for words in Westron, gave up, and completed her sentence in Sindarin; "… respectable profession."

"Ah," said Gimli, "I think I can resolve this misunderstanding. Remember that my father and his companions refer to Bilbo Baggins as 'the Esteemed Burglar'. I expect that's what Cierre means. Someone to creep stealthily into a dragon's lair, or similar, and bring out the treasure without waking the beast or setting off any traps or the like. Is that not so, Cierre?"

Cierre nodded her head vigorously, having noticed that the gesture was common to both worlds, and smiled at Gimli. "That right," she said. "Hobbits – little, not make noise, good at hide, good with handen – hands. Like, people go place dead Men, look for gold and magic swords, take Hobbits to open…" again she groped for a word, but this time mimed opening a lock rather than switching to Sindarin, "… and get past dead Men walking, not have to fight." She refrained from mentioning that many Halflings in Faerûn were also dab hands at picking pockets and certainly weren't above burgling the houses of the wealthy; or, indeed, stabbing merchants in the back and taking the valuables from their corpses.

The two Hobbits relaxed. "That sounds like exploring the tombs of the wights on the Barrow-Downs, where we got our swords," Merry said. "I can see how getting in and out without waking up the wights would be preferable. That's quite different from what I'd thought you meant and I can see that you didn't mean to offend. My apologies. I shouldn't have become annoyed at you."

"And you have my apologies too, Mistress Cierre," said Pippin, managing to pronounce her name almost perfectly on the first attempt.

"Apol-ogies is sorries, that right? Sorry make it better. I say apologies too," Cierre said, smiling at the Hobbits. She wanted to befriend the Hobbits; it would be very awkward to be at odds with these friends of her new companions and, also, they could be a useful source of mushrooms.

"Well, if we're all friends again," Gimli said, "I'll take up the tale once more. After Gandalf broke Wormtongue's hold on Théoden, and we saw to the release of Cierre from her imprisonment, we rode with the Rohirrim to fight Saruman's orcs and wild Men. We garrisoned the fortress of Helm's Deep and held it against the horde. Many were the great deeds done in defence of the walls, and mine not the least, but Cierre was truly exceptional in her valour and her skill. She taught the wild Dunlendings to fear her and eventually they broke and ran."

"Riders on horse kill more than me," Cierre said. "And thing most good was thing you did to ladder. Cut through, not all the way, then orcs climb, it break, they all fall down. Big fun."

The Hobbits chuckled. "You sabotaged the scaling ladders?" Merry asked. "A cunning ploy, but how did you manage it in the middle of a battle?"

"The orcs left the walls for a time to try to stop the Dunlendings from deserting," Gimli explained, "and the Rohirrim started to pull the ladders inside the walls so they couldn't be used against us when the orcs came back. I persuaded them to do something different with one of the ladders. It worked very well; not only did it injure or kill several orcs but it made the rest wary, for a time, of all the other ladders too."

"Very clever," said Pippin. "I'll have to remember that one."

"I trust you're not going to do it to innocent thatchers or fruit-pickers," Merry cautioned him. "That would get you into a lot of trouble."

"Of course I wouldn't do anything that might hurt _Hobbits_," Pippin assured him. "I'd only do it to orcs."

"Not that you'll be likely to get the chance," said Merry.

"Perhaps not," said Pippin, "but I'll be ready if the chance does crop up." He crammed half a slice of toast topped with bacon into his mouth, washed it down with hot tea, and then turned his attention back to Cierre. "How is it that you have black skin?" he asked. "And did your hair used to be another colour? Hobbit hair goes white with age but you look young – although, of course, one can never tell with Elves. How old are you?"

"Pippin!" Merry scolded. "You should never ask a lady her age."

Cierre's face lost all expression and became a mask. How could she sum up the Crown Wars, Corellon's unjust curse on those dubbed _Dhaerow_, and the Descent? She responded tersely. "All Drow hair white, skin black," she said. "I one hundred forty. Young for Drow."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "Not quite one _yén_? Really? Young indeed," he said. "You seem such an experienced warrior that I had thought you much older."

Cierre shrugged. "Old enough," she said, keeping to Westron for once. "Fight much. Not want to talk about it." She finished off the remainder of her meal in silence and the others followed suit.

"Well," said Aragorn, pushing his empty plate aside, "I am replete, I can eat no more, and I think we have told as much of our tales as is needful for the moment. I think I shall go to join Gandalf. And, small thing though it may seem among the great matters of the time, I shall bring to his attention the presence of barrels of Longbottom Leaf amid Saruman's stores."

"We might as well all go," said Merry. "It's not as if there is any need for us to tidy up, and wash the dishes, in all this mess and wreckage."

The party left the guard-house and crossed the inner circle of Isengard, picking out a route between pools of dirty water, until they saw Gandalf, together with Théoden and his Riders, heading for the tower of Orthanc.

"It looks as if they're on their way to speak to Saruman," said Gimli. "Let us join them. It would be a shame to have come all this way and not set eyes on the wizard who has caused so much trouble. And, also, I would like to see for myself how alike Gandalf and Saruman really are." He spoke in Westron but added a translation for Cierre's benefit.

"If he is Wormtongue's master then I would like to kill him," said Cierre. "Although, as it is a parley, I doubt that I will be allowed to do so. Still, I can hope."

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Saruman bore a distinct resemblance to Gandalf, at least as far as appearance went, but his character could hardly have been more different. Cierre wasn't able to follow all the conversation, as Saruman addressed Théoden and the Rohirrim in Westron, but she caught enough to be aware that the wizard was trying to use Suggestion to sway them into overlooking the fact that he'd been trying to conquer their country and to accept him as a 'valued counsellor and ally' – read, manipulative bastard controlling them for his own ends. She considered unslinging her bow and putting a shaft through the wizard's heart but she would have a difficult shot, at a target on a balcony high above her, and all Saruman would have to do was to take a step back and he'd be out of her line of fire.

Gimli interrupted Saruman's spiel, summing up Cierre's own thoughts, in typically blunt and pithy fashion. "The words of this wizard stand on their heads," the Dwarf growled, grasping his axe firmly. "In the language of Orthanc help means ruin, and saving means slaying, that is plain. But we do not come here to beg."

Saruman didn't like that. He snarled out a reply, initially in angry tones but gradually reverting to his oily voice and manner as he tried to calm Gimli, and then he turned his attention back to Théoden. Saruman made an impassioned appeal, putting a lot of power into it, and for a moment Cierre thought the old king was going to fall for it. Éomer spoke up, countering the wizard's words well, but he didn't have the advantage of a Suggestion spell going for him.

"We will have peace," Théoden said at last. Cierre groaned. It seemed that the whole arduous battle had been a waste of time. "Yes, we will have peace," Théoden went on, "when you and all your works have perished – and the works of your dark master to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men's hearts." That was more like it. Cierre particularly enjoyed it when Théoden went on to say "When you hang from a gibbet at your window, for the sport of your own crows, I will have peace with you and Orthanc." She hadn't heard the word 'gibbet' before but worked out the meaning from context. It was a good speech.

Saruman's control snapped. "Gibbets and crows!" he hissed. "Dotard! What is the House of Éorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs?" Cierre could appreciate that it was a cutting retort, although she didn't understand several of the words; she made a mental note to ask one of the Sindarin speakers for a translation later. Once more Saruman regained control of himself and he spoke in more measured tones, dismissing Théoden's people as unimportant, although obviously the failure of his Suggestion had been a blow both to his plans and to his self-esteem. Then, much to Cierre's surprise, Saruman turned his attention to her.

"But what of you, Cierre of Luruar?" Saruman addressed her, in Sindarin. "Lost traveller from another world, clinging to those into whose company you were thrown by mere chance, meddling in affairs you do not understand. What can they offer you? Already you have been beaten and imprisoned at the hands of the Rohirrim, and they fear and distrust you, yet you fight for them because you know not what else to do. Would you not rather serve one who could give you the aid you need? I have the power to return you to your own realm, laden with riches, if you merely do me a few small services."

Cierre could guess what those 'services' might be. Killing Théoden for a start. She could feel the Suggestion spell but she was a Drow, naturally resistant to magic, and she wore an enchanted belt that boosted her resistance enough to make her almost spell-proof. Saruman's appeal would have to stand or fall on its own merits. And it didn't have any.

"_Vith'os_," she snarled out, adding a hand gesture to make it plain what the Drow obscenity represented. "A person is judged by those with whom she associates. Aragorn has Gimli, who willingly risked his life to aid me, and Legolas who is also steadfast and true. Théoden has Éomer, who has proven himself to be honourable and brave, and Éowyn, who showed me great kindness and offered friendship. Who do you have? Stupid orcs, Men who are primitive savages, and Gríma Wormtongue, who attempted to coerce me into taking him to bed, and whose poisoned words caused Théoden to imprison me for defending myself. And you are a proven liar, Saruman. If I did one service for you then you would require another, and another, always postponing the time when you would send me home. If you even have the power; you may be lying about that too. Assuming I want to go, that is, for thus far I am well content in Aragorn's company. And, if I change my mind, then anything you can do I am sure Gandalf can do too. No, I will not serve you. But if you throw down to me Gríma's other eye then I will grant you a quick, and relatively painless, death."

"Vile and ungrateful creature!" Saruman spat back. "You will regret this when those you call friends discover your true nature and cast you out to wander alone and die in misery."

"I've been cast out and alone before," Cierre replied. "I survived. I'd survive again, if it came to it, but I do not believe Aragorn would cast me out."

"Oh?" Saruman focused his gaze on Aragorn. "Know you not, Ranger of the North, that the Dark Elves of her world are a race more evil and treacherous than any orc? She has hidden much from you and you have given your trust to one unworthy. One day she will betray you."

"She told me about her people, when we were in the caves," Gimli put in. "Do not believe him, Aragorn. Cierre would no more betray you than would I! The wizard seeks only to sow discord."

"I am well aware of that, my friend," Aragorn replied. "Do not fear, Cierre, you have won your place in this Fellowship and I will stand by you come what may. The words of a fallen wizard will not turn me against you. He merely spits venom at those who have bested him."

"Bah! Fools," Saruman spat out, reverting to speaking Westron. "Unlettered horsemen wielding crude swords, dour Dwarves, Elves pale and dark, savage tree-spirits – none of them matter. Only wizards can be counted among the Wise. Gandalf, you and I are above the trivial concerns of lesser folk. Are we not both members of a high and ancient Order, most excellent in Middle Earth? Our friendship would profit us both alike. Much we could yet accomplish, together, to heal the disorders of the world. For the common good I am willing to redress the past and to receive you. Come, Gandalf, ascend into the tower and consult with me. Will you not come up?"

Gandalf laughed. "Saruman, Saruman, you have missed your path in life," he said. "You should have been the king's jester and earned your bread by mimicking his counsellors. When last I entered your tower you imprisoned me. You were the jailor of Mordor and there I was to be sent. The guest who has escaped from the roof will think twice before he comes back in by the door. Nay, I do not think I will come up." He went on to invite Saruman to come down, to descend from his tower, and to hand over his staff and the key to Orthanc in return for being allowed to go free.

It seemed a fair offer. Neither wizard appeared to be able to fly, nor to travel by Teleport or by Dimension Door, and Saruman was stuck in his tower with Ents waiting to rip him limb from limb if he tried to escape on foot. However Saruman was too proud to accept. He rejected Gandalf's appeal out of hand and launched into a vitriolic diatribe. Eventually, with a parting volley of scorn, he turned to leave the balcony and retreat into the tower's inner chambers.

"Come back, Saruman," Gandalf commanded. Saruman turned again and, as if dragged against his will, lurched back to the balcony's iron rail and leant upon it. "I did not give you leave to go," said Gandalf. He warned Saruman of the fate that awaited him and then, in a voice filled with power and authority, he said "Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no colour now and I cast you from the Order and from the Council." He raised a hand. "Saruman, your staff is broken."

The staff in Saruman's hand split asunder and part of it fell down at Gandalf's feet. Cierre cringed; she was expecting the destructive blast that would occur if a Staff of the Magi was broken, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, as Saruman was dismissed by Gandalf and slunk away, a glistening spherical object plummeted from a window high above and hurtled towards Cierre's head.

Cierre caught a glimpse of the gleaming ball approaching and leapt aside. It missed her by inches, landed on the stone stairs, and shattered the step on which it struck. The ball, dark but illuminated by some inner fire, was unharmed by the impact and rolled away down the staircase and across the surrounding courtyard. As it rolled towards a pool of water Pippin ran after it and snatched it up.

"The murderous rogue!" Éomer exclaimed.

"Nay, this was no deed of Saruman's," Gandalf said, "nor was it thrown at his bidding. Another it was who hurled it down. A parting shot of Master Wormtongue's, I suspect, and it was no accident that it was Cierre who would have been struck but for her quick reactions."

"A different murderous rogue, then," said Éomer. "So Gríma sought revenge for the loss of his eye. Well it is that Cierre was able to dodge, for it would have struck with lethal force, and that would have been a great loss. I pay no heed to the wizard's words, spoken in malice from a lying mouth, and am proud to have stood with Cierre on the wall of Helm's Deep."

Gandalf made his way to where Pippin stood holding the gleaming sphere. "Here, my lad, I'll take that," the wizard said. "I did not ask you to handle it." He retrieved the object from Pippin and wrapped it in the folds of his cloak. "I will take care of this. It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away."

Higher up the steps Éomer faced Cierre and bowed his head. "Your speech to Saruman was both shrewd and fair," he said, in Sindarin. "I thank you for speaking well of me and of my sister. You have done great deeds in the service of the Mark, even though you were treated ill on your arrival, and you deserve great reward."

"And she shall have it," said Théoden, "but this is neither the time nor the place for such matters. The wizard has crawled back into his hole. Let us away."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Cierre woke with a start and drew her weapons as she leapt to her feet. Someone had shrieked, a cry of pain or alarm, and she expected to find that the camp was under attack. Aragorn and the others, and the Riders of Rohan, were only fractionally behind her in rising and drawing weapons. They had ridden away from Isengard in the direction of Helm's Deep, travelling for only a few hours before halting for the night, and they were out in the wilds well away from any villages of the Rohirrim. Saruman's main force had been utterly destroyed but some of the Dunlendings may well have escaped, or there may have been patrols of orcs separate from the army, and Théoden's escort was small enough to be vulnerable. She saw no sign of any foes, however, and after a while she discovered that the alarm seemed to be down to some altercation between Pippin and Gandalf.

The conversation was in Westron, highly charged with emotion, and some distance away from Cierre. Consequently she understood little of what was going on except that Pippin, despite what he had said the previous day, appeared to have stolen something from Gandalf. She thought that it was the gleaming ball that Wormtongue had thrown at her, which definitely resembled some kind of scrying device and was presumably valuable, but she could easily be mistaken in her assumption. In fact Pippin might have simply been sneaking a look into it, rather than stealing it, although she wouldn't have thought that would have been cause for such alarm and excitement.

That scrying ball, now that Cierre thought about it, was presumably how Saruman had known more about her background and the Drow than he could have found out from Wormtongue. That was a mildly worrying thought, especially when Gandalf presented it to Aragorn with uncharacteristic deference and advice not to be in a hurry to use it, but Cierre wasn't too concerned. Her openness to Gimli, about the dark side of the Drow, had turned out to be providential and what secrets she had not revealed to the Dwarf had already been spilled by Saruman.

Whatever Pippin had done with the scrying ball had caused Gandalf to change the plan. Théoden and his escort were still to ride back to Helm's Deep, and Aragorn and his companions were to go with them, but Gandalf was going to set off for Minas Tirith with Pippin. Merry was to stay with Aragorn.

"I wish to go to Minas Tirith too," Cierre declared. "I owe it to Boromir to fulfil his last request."

"And we shall," Aragorn said, "but in company with the army of the Rohirrim. You cannot ride with Gandalf, Cierre, for the horse you have been given could not begin to keep pace with Shadowfax. Yours is a fine horse, certainly, but Shadowfax is the Lord of the Mearas and faster than any other horse in the world. Do not fret. King Théoden has commanded his army to muster at Edoras, four nights from now, and then. I believe, we shall ride out to the aid of Gondor together."

"Very well, _Jabbuk_, I will obey," Cierre acquiesced, and then she turned to another matter. "Has my teaching been effective? Have you awoken with the ability to cast healing spells?"

"I feel something I have not felt before," Aragorn said, "and I sense that perhaps I may be able to work such magic, but I have no idea how to put it into practice."

"I will instruct you further when we reach Helm's Deep," Cierre said, "for there are still Men there who carry unhealed wounds."

At that moment there was another alarm. Some huge winged creature passed overhead, radiating an aura of fear, and threw the camp into confusion. It made no move to attack, merely flying off to the north, but Gandalf was galvanised into action.

"Nazgûl!" Gandalf cried. "The messenger of Mordor. The storm is coming. The Nazgûl have crossed the river. Ride, ride! Wait not for the dawn. Let not the swift wait for the slow. Ride!" He sprang upon his horse, Aragorn lifted Pippin up and passed him into Gandalf's arms, and then the mighty stallion galloped away and was out of sight in moments.

And, after a brief consultation between Théoden and Aragorn, the rest of the company began readying themselves for immediate departure. Cierre's horse was unhappy about being saddled so early and made its objections known. She had far less experience with horses than any of the others, save for Gimli and Merry who were riding with Legolas and Aragorn respectively, and everyone was kept waiting while she struggled with the beast. Three of the Riders volunteered to assist her but began to argue among themselves, contending for the privilege, and it didn't help. Then Éomer came, dismissed the Riders with a few curt words, and dealt with the recalcitrant horse in short order.

Cierre felt her cheeks burn; he was brusque and impatient with her, unlike the Riders who had been eager to show off, and she could tell she'd lost points with him. It wasn't her fault that she'd been brought up in an environment where few bothered to ride and, when they did, it was on giant lizards. Then, on the surface of Faerûn, developing equestrienne skills hadn't been a priority when she could run faster than anyone else and go day after day on foot without tiring. And she could ride perfectly well; it was just the tack with which she had a problem, when the horse wasn't being co-operative, and she'd never had to bother about that sort of thing in Menzoberranzan where it had been the slaves' job to saddle up the lizards. It was all very well for Legolas, riding bareback, the _vith'ez_ show-off…

The delay had, however, been minimal. Only a couple of minutes after Théoden had planned they were on their way, riding hard and fast, headed for Helm's Deep. And Cierre, who had ridden further and faster in the past few days than the sum total of her riding during fifteen years in the Silver Marches, was beginning to feel the effects. One of the wounded men at the fortress was going to be out of luck; she'd be using up one of her Cure Light Wounds spells on her own thighs and bottom.

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"My Lord King," one of the Riders reported, "there are horsemen behind us. As we crossed the fords I thought I heard them. Now we are sure. They are overtaking us, riding hard."

Théoden called a halt. Once the horses were still Cierre was able to hear the sound of approaching hoof-beats and she scanned the road behind them for the source. The moon was screened by clouds and none of the others, not even Legolas, could make the other horsemen out in the darkness. For Cierre, however, it wasn't a problem.

"There are thirty-one of them," she informed Aragorn, as the king's party tried to determine the size of this unknown force and prepared for possible battle. "Men, not orcs, and not Dunlendings. Skilled horsemen," as of course they would have to be to have overtaken the Rohirrim, "and lightly armoured. Leather and chain mail, nothing heavier, except for two who may be wearing plate."

"An even match, then, if it comes to a fight," said Aragorn, "although what you say makes it unlikely. Another party of Rohirrim, or perhaps Men of Gondor, seems most probable. Saruman had no cavalry and the Haradrim could not come this far north unless Gondor had already fallen."

The moon emerged from behind its cloud. "They look like you," Cierre announced, "or at least like enough to be your kin."

"Can it be?" Aragorn exclaimed, joy evident in his voice.

"Halt! Halt!" Éomer challenged, as the newcomers approached to within fifty paces. "Who rides in Rohan?"

The approaching horsemen brought their steeds to a halt. One dismounted and approached on foot. He bore a distinct resemblance to Aragorn, although perhaps more weathered and slightly less handsome, and Cierre licked her lips. A heterosexual Ranger might be just what she was looking for.

"Rohan? Rohan, did you say?" the Man called. His accent, as far as Cierre could tell from her limited acquaintance with Westron, was identical to Aragorn's. "That is a glad word. We seek that land in haste from long afar."

"And you have found it," said Éomer, "for when you crossed the ford yonder you entered it. But it is the realm of Théoden the King. None ride here save by his leave. Who are you and what is your haste?"

"Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North, I am," the stranger replied. "We seek one Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and we had heard that he was in Rohan."

"And you have found him," Aragorn cried. He passed the reins of his horse to Merry, ran forward to greet the other Ranger, and the two Men embraced. At first Cierre, to whom embraces with someone not a lover were culturally alien, thought that Halbarad must be Aragorn's lover; then Aragorn announced Halbarad as his kinsman and, although this didn't disprove Cierre's hypothesis, it did provide an alternative explanation.

Halbarad explained that he had received a summons and had then gathered all the available Rangers to ride to Aragorn's aid. This puzzled Aragorn, who had sent no such summons, but Halbarad revealed that it had come via the Lady Galadriel. Cierre recalled having heard that name mentioned as one who might have the power to send her home, and – by Éomer – as a sorceress. No surprise, then, that she'd be able to know what was going on at a distance.

The introductions were, of necessity, brief. Halbarad, and the others of his company, obviously were somewhat taken aback by Cierre's unusual appearance but there was no time for explanations. They were on their way again before Cierre had the chance to learn anything about their new allies except that yes, they were Rangers, and that two of them were _Darthiiren_ – identical twin Elves, almost as tall as Legolas but resembling the Moon Elves of Faerûn rather than Wood Elves – and the twins were extremely good-looking; handsome enough, in fact, for Cierre to regard them as very tasty indeed despite her usual antipathy towards Moon Elves.

And the two Elves, after initially riding beside Aragorn and engaging him in conversation, then dropped back slightly to station themselves to either side of Cierre and ply her with questions as they rode. Not, alas, questions of the 'May we invite you to dine with us, share a bottle or two of wine, and then come back to our chamber for a night of wild, passionate, sex?' kind. Rather they questioned her about her background and her people, very much the same questions as she'd already been asked numerous times, and she gave the same answers. It would save time, she thought, if she wrote out her replies on paper and had a number of copies transcribed so that she could hand them out to everyone she met for the first time.

Unfortunately, from Cierre's point of view, the conversation never strayed into matters that could be regarded as personal. After she'd answered their questions about her presence in this world they went on to ask about the battle at Helm's Deep. At no point did any opportunities arise for anything that could count as flirting – not a skill Cierre possessed, anyway, it being completely alien to the Drow and almost unknown among the Uthgardt barbarians – and the closest she was able to come was to compliment them on the beauty of their armour. It wasn't plate, she saw once they were close, but gilded mail with some plate reinforcements over the chest.

"It was made for us by Angmir," one of them said; she had no idea whether it was Elladan or Elrohir.

"Our father's smith," the other one tagged on to the end, picking up exactly where his brother had left off. "He learned his craft in the realm of Eregion…"

"…when Celebrimbor was Lord, long years ago," the first continued. "Elves and Dwarves worked together in those days, refining their arts…"

"…and Angmir carries on that tradition."

Cierre slipped into a reverie about getting fucked by both of them at once; if they could co-operate in bed as well as they could in speech it would be an experience never to be forgotten. It didn't seem to be an immediate prospect, and she wouldn't make a favourable impression by drifting off in the middle of a conversation, and so she forced herself to come back to the moment.

"In my world the Dwarves are the finest smiths, but the Elves surpass them at enchanting," she said. "My own people can almost match the Dwarves at working metal, and the equal of the Surface Elves when it comes to enchantments, but they make few things that fit my stature and my style. My sword was made by the Drow, but my axe was forged by a Dwarf, and my armour is the work of Men."

"Aragorn told us that you can cast healing enchantments," said Elladan, or Elrohir.

"And that you have taught him to do the same, although he is not yet sure that he will be able to replicate your abilities," Elrohir, or Elladan, added. "Our father is the most renowned healer in all of Middle Earth and yet he cannot heal a wound with nothing but a word."

"We have studied under him," said his brother. "Think you that we could also learn this art?"

"I am willing to teach you, or at least to try," replied Cierre, "but on one condition. That you wear something distinctive, an item of jewellery or apparel, so that I can tell the two of you apart."

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Aragorn proved to be an apt pupil. When they arrived at Helm's Deep, and he tested out his new spells on the wounded Men there, it turned out that his capacity for spell-casting quite eclipsed Cierre's. He was able to cast more spells, and of greater power, than Cierre had ever been able to master. This came as no great surprise to Cierre, although it did to Aragorn; if she'd possessed the right mental attributes for spell-casting she wouldn't have failed so abjectly at her clerical studies. Aragorn, who was charismatic in the extreme and possessed enormous strength of will, had those attributes in great measure. This opened up the possibility of him learning other spells, ones unavailable to Cierre, but she put that thought aside for another time.

"This is remarkable," Aragon said. "A Rider who would have lain abed for months, and who might yet have died, now fit to ride and fight. Another with a gash on the arm, which would have rendered him unable to wield a sword for weeks, now healed on the instant, and full ready to smite our foes. And a limping Man who can set aside his crutch and run. If you can teach my kinsfolk the same skills then we could save many lives, or restore a full company of wounded Men to fitness in a day or two, and this would be a great benefit in the War."

"Already I have agreed to teach the twins Elladan and Elrohir, _Jabbuk_," Cierre said, "and I would be happy to include the other Rangers." Actually 'happy' was an overstatement, as it meant that she wouldn't get to spend time alone with the handsome Elves, but she was willing enough.

Yet not all the Rangers were as willing. "I had thought, in the moonlight, that she was dark brown like some of those who dwell in Far Harad," said one. "I had not realised that she was as black as night. And I am told, by the Rohirrim, that she shrouded herself in shadow during the battle. Are these not signs that she is a servant of the Dark Lord?"

Aragorn's brows lowered and his expression became like unto a gathering thunderstorm. Before he could speak, however, Gimli intervened.

"You're a fool, laddie," the Dwarf declared. "I have seen Gandalf cast a spell of Darkness identical to that cast by Cierre. Are you accusing _Gandalf_ of being a servant of Sauron? And to say that someone's virtue can be determined by the colour of their skin is ridiculous. Would it was that easy! It would make just as much sense to judge folk by the colour of their hair. Her hair is white, the Rohirrim have pale hair, and yours is dark; are they, then, more virtuous than you?"

"Sauron has never been able to heal, only to mar and distort," Legolas pointed out.

"Yet the Valar have never granted us such powers before," said the suspicious Ranger.

"Did you ever ask them?" Cierre retorted.

"Enough, Bergon," Aragorn commanded. "You do not have to participate, if you have objections, but do not hinder those who do wish to learn. I invoked the name of Estë when I spoke the spells, and they worked; that, I think, proves conclusively that they cannot originate from the Enemy. Now I must retire to the chamber that has been provided for me; I have much to think about, and I can spare no more time here. Halbarad, join me as soon as you have heard Cierre's instructions."

With that Aragorn departed. Cierre managed to keep her face straight; it seemed that her first guess, that Halbarad was Aragorn's lover, had been correct. She suppressed the thought, and suppressed her nervousness at the unaccustomed experience of addressing more than thirty people, and began to lecture.

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"She-air of the Drow," said Théoden, who thus far had not managed to pronounce her name in the same fashion twice, "this Man confesses that he did wilfully strike you with his shield, when you were standing atop the parapet, so that you fell from the wall amid a host of Dunlendings. For such treachery in battle the penalty would be banishment from the Mark on pain of death, or at the least the payment to you of a wergild and dismissal of the offender from his éored. Éomer informs me, though, that you told him that you would be satisfied if you could merely strike the offender with your fist. Is that truly the case?"

"Indeed so, Théoden King," Cierre replied. "I took no hurt, and was able to turn the mischance to our advantage, and I am told that the guard that I slew in Edoras was kin to this Rider by marriage. I wish to end this with no further bad blood or resentment."

"Then so shall it be," said Théoden. He waited for a moment while Éomer finished translating the exchange into Rohirric, for the benefit of the offender and the witnesses, and then addressed the Rider. "Heruwald, son of Herubrand, do you accept this judgement? And will that be an end to the matter?"

"I accept it, Lord King," said Heruwald, "and it will be an end. I regret my action, for the Dark Elf fought full valiantly in the battle, and the skill and valour of her and her shield-brother the Dwarf saved many lives as we fell back from the Deeping Wall."

Erkenbrand, chief of the forces of the Westfold, looked on and snorted. "A blow from the fist of that slender Elf-maid seems no fit punishment," he said to Éomer. "Perhaps I should smite him in her stead." He was a Man of late middle-age, balding under his helm and with grey hairs in his beard, but he had a tremendous breadth of shoulder, his arms bulged with heavy muscle, and he was renowned throughout the Mark for his strength.

"You have not seen Cierre wield a sword," Éomer said, "nor hoist an _Uruk-hai_ in full armour above her head and hurl him from the Deeping Wall to crash down upon his fellows. Nay, I suspect that Heruwald would be more than willing for you to take Cierre's place."

Indeed Heruwald was visibly apprehensive as Cierre approached him. He swallowed, clenched his jaw, and stood firm.

Cierre drew back her left fist. If she struck with her full strength, at a target who was making no move to block or to dodge, she could kill or seriously injure him with ease. That seemed pointless, however, and so she asked herself 'What would Aragorn want me to do?' and acted accordingly. Her fist shot out in a mere jab to the chin, striking with force enough to jolt back his head, but no more.

"Do not do it again," she said, in Westron.

"I will not, Lady," Heruwald replied. He bowed his head and then began to rub his jaw. "I thank you for your mercy."

"Let the matter be at an end," Théoden said. "Heruwald, return to your éored. You will ride with us to the muster. Lady Cheeair, you deserve a reward for your deeds in the service of Rohan, as do your comrades. For now I bestow upon you as a gift the horse that was loaned to you by Éomer; the dependants of the former owner shall be recompensed from the treasury of Meduseld. I shall consider in greater depth what else to give you once we are at Edoras. I would ask you, however, what it is that you would choose to receive?"

Cierre didn't even need to think about it. "I thank you, Lord King," she said. "What I desire, more than anything else, is… a hot bath."

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"Nothing," Legolas moaned. "Why did it not work? I am a Wood Elf, at least on my mother's side, and surely I have a connection with Nature at least as strong as that of Aragorn." All around him Rangers were casting healing spells on the Rohirrim injured, almost unable to believe what they were doing, gasping in amazement as wounds closed up before their eyes. Legolas and Gimli, however, obtained no results whatsoever.

Cierre touched two fingers to her chin. "I sensed that it would not work for you, but you deserved the chance to try," she said. "Don't ask me to explain. My marks for The Theory of Divine Magic were the lowest ever recorded in the whole history of Arach-Tinilith. I just sensed that Aragorn possesses whatever quality it is that enables a Ranger to cast spells but I did not sense it in you. Neither did I sense it in Gimli. It is rare for a Dwarf to have such abilities, in my world, except in the case of those who devote their lives to the service of the Gods. I suspect it is the same here."

"That does not surprise me," Gimli said. "I have never had any aptitude for healing and, to be honest, I never expected to be able to master this art. Do not be downcast, Legolas, you are no worse off than you were yesterday."

"Yet still am I disappointed," said Legolas. "It cannot be because I am an Elf, for Cierre is also an Elf though of different kind, and I see that the Sons of Elrond have set a broken leg with but words."

"From what I've heard I gather that they are Elves who have associated with Rangers for many years," Cierre said. "Perhaps it has… rubbed off on them."

Legolas frowned, momentarily, and then threw back his head and laughed. "Perhaps on this long journey with Aragorn, and then yourself and now an entire company of Rangers, something will rub off on me too."

"I suppose it's possible," Cierre said. "I really don't know how it works." It occurred to her that the idea of rubbing herself against Legolas did absolutely nothing for her and she paused to consider the reasons. He was just as handsome as the Sons of Elrond but somehow she couldn't think of him as anything but a comrade. Perhaps it was because when she met him she'd still been thinking of the _Darthiiren_ as her traditional enemies, a feeling that had eroded away as she spent time in his company, or perhaps he, like Aragorn, was _do'ch_ and she had sensed this subconsciously. He certainly wasn't Aragorn's lover, there had been no hint of that at all as they journeyed, but he might have a_ do'ch mrannd'ssinss_ waiting for him back in Mirkwood. Although, _do'ch_ or not, she'd still be happy to rub herself against Aragorn…

"I see your teaching has been successful." Aragorn's voice broke into her reverie. He had entered the room while Cierre was distracted and was surveying the scene, arms folded across his chest, watching as the formerly injured Rohirrim warriors reacted with incredulity and delight to their restored health.

"Indeed, _Jabbuk_," Cierre said, coming back to the moment with a start. "Even Bergon, who distrusted me, has managed to learn one Cure Light Wounds. Gimli and Legolas were not able to learn the art, alas, but then I didn't expect them to. They're not Rangers."

"Even so, there are now thirty-one more who can return wounded Men to battle-fitness in mere moments," Aragorn said. "This is a factor that I had not considered when I made my plans and I must now change them accordingly."

"How so?" asked Legolas.

"I have looked into the Palantir," Aragorn said. "It was a long and bitter struggle, but I had both the right and the strength, and eventually I won control and turned it to my own use. Then it was that I saw a new peril coming unlooked-for upon Gondor from the South, one that will draw off much strength from the defence of the city, and if it is not countered I fear that Minas Tirith will fall ere ten days have passed."

"Then it will fall," said Gimli, "for the only help we could send would be the Rohirrim, and they could not complete their muster and get there in time. And if Théoden takes only the Riders that are here now, and sends orders for the others to follow when they can, then they will be destroyed piecemeal."

"_Vith nindel!_" Cierre snapped. "Boromir used almost his dying breath to save my life. I vowed then that I would go to his city, as he wished, and defend it from its enemies. I will not be forsworn. Give me a map, and provisions, and I will go alone if needs be."

Aragorn reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder. "Well said, my friend," he said, "but that will not be necessary. There is a road a small party could take which would get us there in time. The Sons of Elrond brought a message from their father reminding me of that path. I had hoped to avoid it, for it is a place of ill repute, but it is the only route that will serve our needs. The Paths of the Dead."

"The Paths of the Dead? A fell name indeed," said Gimli. "Can the living take such a road and not perish? And, even if we pass that way, what can a small company do to counter the strokes of Mordor?"

Cierre toyed with the necklace at her neck. "I will come with you, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," she said. "The Dead hold no terrors for me."

"I'm not saying I won't come," Gimli said. "I will stand with you even in the face of all the hordes of Mordor. But will it serve our purpose?"

"I believe so," Aragorn said. He launched into an explanation of an old prophecy; Cierre didn't follow it all, even though the conversation was taking place in Sindarin, because it referenced things familiar to the others but unknown to her. She thought she had got the gist, though; the road was indeed infested with Undead but they had been condemned to that state because they had broken an oath to fight against Sauron. Aragorn, who apparently was the descendant of the king to whom the oath had been sworn, believed that he could compel them to fulfil that oath and provide him with an army.

"We thirty-five, plus the Dead, should be able to achieve my aims," Aragorn said. "However it occurred to me that the Rohirrim, who will have their own battle to fight, could make good use of our new healing powers. It would be unfair, and not to our best advantage, for all those with these abilities to go off together and to leave them with nothing. Yet I can spare few, if any, of our company to go with the Rohirrim instead."

"Perhaps we could trade," Legolas suggested. "If a few Rangers, perhaps ten or a dozen, went with the Rohirrim and that number of the Riders came with us in their place…"

"An excellent idea," Aragorn said. "The Rohirrim have a great dread of the Paths, and I suspect few of them would be willing to take that road, but perhaps enough might be found for such an exchange to be made. They would not slow us down, that is certain, and they are indeed fierce and staunch warriors. I shall consult with Théoden, and with Éomer, and ask them to find some volunteers. Let those Rangers who are willing to travel with the Rohirrim present themselves to Halbarad."

Cierre pursed her lips. All the Rangers spoke Sindarin and it would have been a pleasant change to have been able to understand everything that was going on for a change. Also she wondered what was to happen to the remaining Hobbit. It seemed a little odd, after running for days on end to rescue Merry, merely to pass him over to the Rohirrim; yet there would be no place for him on this desperate journey. Still, from her point of view, it was probably for the best. No doubt the Rangers who chose to go with the Rohirrim would include any who, like Bergond, did not trust her; conversely the most likely Riders to volunteer to travel with the Rangers were those who had become her enthusiastic supporters during the battle.

"Even split up among the Rohirrim, perhaps only one for five hundred warriors, Men with such magical powers of healing could be of great value in battle," Aragorn went on. "It would be an aid to morale, for a start, and I am sure these Riders whom you have cured will spread the tale among their fellows. And we owe it all to you, Cierre; you have made yet another valuable contribution to our cause. It was a day of great good fortune for us when you came through the portal into Middle Earth."

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"I sense Undead," the Drow priestess announced. "Many of them, all around us."

"That explains why these tunnels are called the Paths of the Dead," Khareese said. "Are there any that could threaten us?"

"No, all that I sense are relatively weak, although their numbers are great," the priestess answered. "They will not approach unless I allow it."

"Good," said Khareese. "Keep them back far enough that they do not interfere." She turned to the twenty Drow who made up the rest of her squad. "Explore this place," she commanded. "I want a suitable place for us to camp, where we can rest without giving away our presence, for we do not know how long we will have to stay here before Cierre arrives. Halaster would not be more specific about timing than 'a day or two', and that may just have been to fit into his idiotic rhyming. And, of course, we need to select the best place to set up our ambush." She selected one of the mages and gave him an order. "Cast some minor spells to check that magic works properly here. It can be much weaker on some of the Planes and, if such is the case on this world, I need to know before battle commences."

"As you command," the mage responded.

"Should I lay traps along the path, Jabbress?" asked a thief.

"No," said Khareese. "They would give her warning of danger. I want Cierre to walk into our ambush unaware of her peril. She is deadly, as we have learned to our cost, and more so if she is given time to prepare. Let the first she knows of our presence be when our crossbow bolts find her heart."

"And if she is in company with others?" a male warrior enquired.

"If she marches as part of an army then we try to pick her off and then flee," Khareese said. "If she is with a small group then we kill them. Kill them all."

**Glossary of Drow Phrases**

• '_Valsharess_' = 'Empress', or 'Queen'

• '_Jabbuk_' = 'Commander (male)'

• '_Jabbress_' = 'Commander (female)'

• '_abbil_' = 'trusted friend'

• '_Ultrinnan!_' = 'Victory!'

• '_Xuat vith xuil lil Treanten_' = 'Don't fuck with the Treants (Ents)'

• '_Udos inbal muth l'sakphen_' = 'We have found the Halflings'

• '_Ele'udtila naut nindol vith'ez xanalress jihard ulu l'kultar?_' = 'Why doesn't this fucking language follow the rules?'

• '_Darthiiren_' = 'Surface Elves'

• '_Dhaerow_' = 'Traitors', name given to the Ilythiiri by other Elves, later shortened to 'Drow'

• '_Vith'os_!' = 'Fuck you!'

• '_vith'ez_' = 'Fucking'

• '_do'ch_' = 'gay'

• '_do'ch mrannd'ssinss_' = 'gay lover (male)'

• '_Vith nindel!_' = 'Fuck that!'


	5. Down the Valley of the Shadow

**Chapter Five: Down the Valley of the Shadow**

"I envy you," Éowyn said, lowering her sword. "You went to battle, and won glory and renown, while I had to stay behind."

Cierre's eyebrows rose. "But you were in charge," she said. "In the absence of Théoden King you are, effectively, Matron Mother of the Rohirrim. A position of great honour and responsibility. I could never hope to achieve such status."

"Yet it seems like a cage to me," said Éowyn. "Now, no doubt, I will be left behind again. And you ride off once more, on a course which may be perilous in the extreme, yet if you make it through the Paths of the Dead you will win further renown. Would that I could go! Must I be the one always left behind, to mind the home and the hearth, while the men-folk of the Rohirrim ride to glory?"

"There is less glory in war than you suppose," Cierre pointed out, "and more… butchery. Am I not teaching you a stroke intended to take off a foe's arm at the shoulder? Where is the glory in leaving a man crippled, and helpless for life, if he does not bleed to death slowly on the field? It is merely effective. The man behind him, seeing it, will enter the fight with terror in his heart. That is what war is like. There is no less glory, and certainly more honour, in carrying out the task that you have been given, even if it is not what you would have chosen, and doing it well."

"Then why do you choose the warrior's path?" Éowyn asked, her lips protruding in a pout.

"Because I'm good at it," Cierre answered, "very good. And, in truth, I am not much good at anything else. Now, shall we resume our practice?"

The corners of Éowyn's mouth turned down. "I do not know if I will be able to learn that stroke," she said. "I cannot, no matter how I try, flick the sword with my elbow and wrist the way that you do."

Cierre scrutinised the way Éowyn held her sword. "I think your blade is a touch too heavy for you," she said. "You wield it well enough in over-arm cuts, and thrusts, but it comes up a little too slowly. May I?" She sheathed her own sword and held out her hand for Éowyn's. Cierre held the sword, swung it appraisingly, and then found the balance point. She shook her head. "It would be a fine weapon for your brother," she said, "but it is not ideal for you. I have a spare sword that I feel would suit you better. I put it aside when I took Heleg Naur from a fallen foe and it is just taking up space in my pack." She went to where she had laid aside her backpack and began to rummage inside.

Éowyn shook her head. "I thank you, but I have always used a long-sword, and I would have to learn a whole new style to wield a short-sword effect…" Her voice trailed off as she saw Cierre withdraw from the pack a full-sized weapon matching her own in length. "How… but… how did you fit that sword into there?" Éowyn asked. Her eyebrows had climbed almost to her hair-line and incredulity was evident in her voice.

"It's a Lesser Bag of Holding, also known as a Greater Magic Bag," Cierre explained. "It is five times bigger on the inside than the outside and you only feel one fifth of the weight. Such things are more common in my world than in this, I have learned, although even in mine it would be counted as a rare and precious treasure." She set the bag down, drew the sword from its scabbard, and passed it to Éowyn. "This sword, too, is enchanted," Cierre said, "making it lighter and sharper than yours. I think it will serve you well."

Éowyn had been gazing at the magic bag, her eyes wide, but the sword quickly captured her attention. She took hold of the hilt, raised it high and studied it, and made a couple of tentative swings to feel out its balance and weight. She then began to wield it with more confidence, cutting and thrusting at an imaginary opponent, and then performed the underarm strike with which Cierre severed limbs.

"Much better," Cierre praised. "Not perfect but getting there. Here, I will guide you." She moved to stand behind Éowyn, took hold of her arm, and moved it through the stroke. Of necessity Cierre had to stand pressed right up against Éowyn, her breasts pressing against the other girl's back, and she felt a sudden desire to kiss the back of Éowyn's neck. Cierre's left arm started to move, without her conscious volition, to Éowyn's waist.

This came as something of a surprise to Cierre. She had slept with women before, back in Menzoberranzan, but usually in situations where the other woman had too high a rank and position for Cierre to risk refusing. Only once had Cierre herself initiated such an encounter and that had been deliberately to humiliate someone who had antagonised her and then fallen to lower status. It had been a profoundly unsatisfactory experience and she'd come out of it wishing she'd simply killed the other girl, or at least punched her on the nose, instead. Yet now she would very much like to take Éowyn to bed and was convinced that, if she did, it would be good for them both. Perhaps it was the friendship, and genuine affection, she felt for the other girl that made the difference.

Be that as it may, acting on the attraction would not be a good idea. Accommodation was limited in Dunharrow and Cierre would be sharing a bedroom with Éowyn. Very convenient if Éowyn responded to her advances – but acutely embarrassing if she didn't. And, if Éowyn's comments about Aragorn were anything to go by, the Rohir girl's preferences were strictly for the male of the species. Any advance Cierre made probably would be rebuffed and their friendship would be damaged. That was something she wasn't willing to risk.

Reluctantly, Cierre restrained herself from putting her arm around Éowyn's waist and instead took hold of her by the left arm. "Pull back with this arm as you strike," Cierre advised. "It will help you put power into the blow." She guided Éowyn through the movements and then watched as she went through with the manoeuvre unassisted.

"Excellent," Cierre praised. "Now do it at full speed."

Éowyn complied. "I'll be exposing myself to a thrust, pulling back my shield arm like that," she pointed out.

"True," Cierre conceded, "but if you do it right that won't matter. No-one can deliver a thrust when their sword arm is lying on the floor. It may be more difficult for you as you are right-handed, and so you will have to strike at an angle, and your opponent will have more of a chance to block with his shield. If I face a right-handed foe I change my sword over to my left hand. You could strike at the shield arm, of course, but that requires his shield to be held out away from his body. When I took off the shield arm from one of the Dunlendings he had a burning torch in that hand and he wanted to keep it well away from his face. Such a circumstance will not arise often and you may find that this technique is useful to you only when you face a left-handed enemy, one who wields a weapon in each hand, or someone with a two-handed axe or greatsword."

Éowyn nodded. "That is enough, for left-handers are awkward opponents and two-handed axes are formidable, and to have such a surprising move in my repertoire could be advantageous. Where did you learn it?"

"I developed it myself, as a variation on two manoeuvres that are taught to Drow warriors for use when fighting someone significantly taller," Cierre explained. She released her hold on Éowyn and moved away. "The starting position is the same but for one you turn the blade thus," she demonstrated, "and stab with the point to the armpit. The other goes like so," she demonstrated again, "and the target is the groin. Neither worked for me, for I was always much taller than my practice partners and the angles were all wrong, but it occurred to me that if I combined the two strokes and used the edge I would be able to achieve a similar result. It has worked well for me ever since."

"So I hear," Éowyn said. "I shall practice the move. Perhaps one day I shall have need of it."

"Let us hope that day does not come soon," Aragorn's voice put in.

Cierre started, surprised that he had been able to approach without her noticing, and turned to see Aragorn standing nearby. He had not chosen deliberately to sneak up on the two women, she was certain, but as a skilled Ranger he moved quietly even when not actively trying to be stealthy. "Greetings, _Jabbuk_," she said. "I did not know you were there." It was, she thought, just as well she had made no advances toward Éowyn; it would have been very embarrassing to be witnessed even if, or perhaps especially if, they had been successful.

"I came to remind you that we have an early start tomorrow, and you should not stay up too much longer, but I could not help pausing to watch your swordplay," Aragorn said. "The move that you mention, designed for one who is small fighting a large opponent, sounds as if it could be of use to the Hobbits."

"I shall teach them, when we are together again," Cierre said.

"I know not when that shall be," said Aragorn. "Tell me, is there a counter to the move? Your people may not be the only ones who have invented it."

"Indeed there is, _Jabbuk_," Cierre replied. "You use your boot."

"Surely that would require you to be extremely flexible?" said Éowyn, raising her eyebrows.

Cierre laughed. "Not to parry, but to kick," she explained. "You turn your body away from the strike and kick with the other foot. You will drive your opponent back, perhaps knock her down or wind her, and regain the advantage. Even if she holds a shield you should still put her off enough that you will not be stabbed. At worst, if she has a second sword or a dagger in the other hand, you may take a cut on the leg but that is preferable to being stabbed in the armpit."

"I shall remember that," said Aragorn. "And the strike to the groin?"

Again Cierre laughed. "I have noticed that most males have a reflex that enables them to protect their groins more effectively than anywhere else," she said. "You must only be aware that the strike is on its way and, without even needing to think, your hand will be in the way of the blade. True, you will most probably suffer a cut, but better on the hand than the… target area."

Aragorn winced. "Indeed so," he said, "although with mailed gauntlets that could be avoided. I do not wear such apparel, however, as I prefer to have unimpaired use of my fingers. I hope that the situation will not arise. And that reminds me; we shall arise before the dawn on the morrow, and so you should cease your swordplay tuition and retire to bed."

"I need less sleep than most," said Cierre, "but I know we have far to travel and to rest now will stand me in good stead later. I will take your advice, _Jabbuk_." She turned to Éowyn. "I know that the facilities in this refuge are, of necessity, limited, and I will quite understand if it is not possible, but is there any chance that I might, before we retire, get a bath?"

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The closest they could come to a bath, with what was available at Dunharrow, was a tub to stand in, jugs of hot water, soap and a cloth. It sufficed to get Cierre clean, removing the last traces of sweat and blood from the battle, and she prepared for bed feeling more contented than she had in a long time.

Cierre undressed in front of Éowyn without a second thought; the Drow had few inhibitions about nudity and, although she had learned that humans were much more modest, most of her interactions had been with the Uthgardt barbarians whose nudity taboos applied only in mixed company. Éowyn was more hesitant, removing her clothes almost reluctantly, and keeping her eyes averted from Cierre most of the time. Then Cierre remarked, with accompanying expletives in her own language, that she had forgotten to seek out a seamstress to repair her torn breeches and now it was too late.

"Perhaps not," Éowyn said, turning to face Cierre as she spoke. Éowyn's eyebrows rose as she set eyes on Cierre's naked body but she made no comment. "Give them to me now. I will find someone to mend the tear, and wash out the blood, and then they can be dried in front of a fire. They will be ready by morning."

Cierre seized the opportunity to take a good look at an equally naked Éowyn. The Rohir girl was lithe and fit, almost identical in build to Cierre apart from being a touch broader at the hips and slightly smaller in the breasts, and it crossed Cierre's mind that they'd look very alike if somehow Éowyn could be dyed black. The most visible difference, other than the colour of skin and eyes, was the triangle of tawny hair that adorned Éowyn's pubic mound. It contrasted sharply with the barely discernible fuzz that was its equivalent on Cierre.

"There is no need," Cierre replied. She wondered if performing oral sex on Éowyn would result in pubic hair getting stuck in her teeth; it was, she decided, a risk she would be willing to take if the opportunity presented itself. "I doubt you would be able to find a willing seamstress at this time of night."

"I think that I will," Éowyn said, as she hastily re-donned her clothes. "I have two gold coins and six silver _sceatta_ remaining from the money that you gave me for the wergild of Déorthain. For a single _sceatta_, or two at the most, any woman of Rohan would be happy to give up her sleep to work at mending and washing your breeches. I trust you would have no objection to my using the money in that way?"

"Use it in any way you think fit," Cierre said. She did a quick calculation. There had been no opportunity, as yet, to perform an accurate count of the gold she had found within Undermountain but she estimated that the total funds in her pack were about two and a half thousand gold pieces. That would be enough to pay the wergilds on three full éoreds of Riders. Not that Cierre had any intention of mowing down the Rohirrim by the hundred but it was a guide to the purchasing power of her funds; enough, she estimated, to sustain a reasonable lifestyle for perhaps a couple of centuries even without including her jewels. Cierre put that thought out of her mind, retrieved the damaged breeches from her pack, and passed them to Éowyn. Her gaze fell upon the tallow candle that lit the bedchamber and an idea struck her.

"Wait a moment, _abbil_," Cierre said, deciding that Éowyn had earned the right to be regarded as a 'trusted friend'. She rummaged in her pack and produced three gems. "A human seamstress would struggle to sew by candle-light. This will help." She stroked her finger across one of the gems and it lit up with a brilliant light.

"More magic? There must be many wizards in your world," Éowyn remarked.

"There is at least one in every town that is larger than a village," said Cierre, "but most have little power. Ones who can create magic items are much rarer. I obtained these from the wizard Sobrey, in Waterdeep, which is a city of over a hundred thousand people."

"That is more than in all of Rohan," Éowyn said. "I wish that we could have more time to talk. I would love to hear more of your world."

"There is much I desire to learn of your world, too," said Cierre, "for I may not be able to return to my own world and will have to live in this one. When I return I will talk with you at length. There is no time now, however, for Aragorn has ordered me to sleep so that I am thoroughly rested for our journey tomorrow. And that reminds me; I would like to have the light gem returned to me in the morning. Aragorn may well find the gems useful when we travel the Paths of the Dead."

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"This is an evil door," Halbarad said, "and my death lies beyond it."

"Take my necklace," Cierre offered. "It is enchanted with wards against the Undead. While you wear it the Dead can do you no harm." She put her hands behind her head to undo the clasp.

Halbarad shook his head. "Keep your necklace, Lady Cierre," he said. "I do not fear the Dead, not while I am in the presence of Aragorn, and the premonition that I feel may have nothing to do with the Paths of the Dead in themselves. Yet it was an offer nobly made, and I thank you sincerely."

"It will be hard to persuade the horses to follow us into so dark a place," said the Rohir warrior Gárod. He was one of fifteen Rohirrim who had volunteered to join Aragorn's company. Nine of the Rangers had volunteered to ride with the Rohirrim; others had stated that they would be willing to join the Rohirrim host, if Aragorn so commanded, but he had decided that the nine would be sufficient. The Grey Company, therefore, now numbered forty-one.

"Yet follow us they must," Aragorn said, speaking Westron for the benefit of Gárod and the other Riders, "for we have many leagues to go, and every moment is precious. Luckily Cierre has provided us with gems that can bring light to the darkness far more effectively than torches."

"They resemble the Phial of Galadriel," Gimli remarked, in Sindarin. "How long will the lights last, lass?"

"Several years, at least," Cierre replied. "Decades, or even centuries, if the wizard who created them was powerful enough."

"Ah. I was concerned lest they would not see us through this journey," said Gimli, "but I see I have no need to worry."

"Such small items, which must be held between finger and thumb, are not best suited to the purpose," Legolas commented. "They would be more convenient if, for instance, they were mounted on a staff."

"Indeed so," Cierre conceded, "but they are all I have. I have seen rings with sockets in which light gems can be fitted, a very convenient way of holding them, but it also means that they give away your position in the dark and cannot quickly be jettisoned if you find that you have become a target."

Legolas nodded. "True," he said, "but it would be good to have a better way of holding them."

"I think I could manage something," said Gimli. "You have glue for affixing the flights of your arrows to the shafts, do you not? If you could spare a shaft or two I could make… light wands."

"A fine idea," said Aragorn, "but make haste. We have little time to spare."

It took Gimli only a couple of minutes to set the gems into the notched ends of arrows, taken from the Rohirrim rather than using the longer shafts favoured by Legolas, Cierre, and the Rangers, and thus to produce illumination wands in a convenient form. As Gimli worked Aragorn spoke to Cierre.

"Have you aught else that could aid us in that amazing bag of yours?" he asked.

"Only the eight fire arrows I mentioned earlier, and a scroll with a single healing spell inscribed upon it," Cierre replied. "I had two scrolls but I used one healing an injured man at Helm's Deep. I gave my spare enchanted sword to Éowyn. I have nothing else. I did have other things that would have been useful, for instance several more healing potions and vials of Alchemists' Fire that could have served us well at the siege, but I sold them in Waterdeep. I regret it now."

"Don't blame yourself, lass, you had no way of knowing you would be leaving your world," Gimli said. He held up three arrow-shafts now crowned by glowing gems. "Here, Aragorn, these should serve to light our way. It would be well not to wave them around too vigorously at first, until the glue sets solid, but it will be better than holding the jewels in our fingers."

"Indeed so," said Aragorn. "Thank you, Gimli. I think one light-bearer should be at the head of our column, one in the middle, and one at the rear." He took the wands from Gimli and handed one to Halbarad, one to Baldheort of Rohan, and one to Elladan. "Will you lead the rearguard, brother?" he asked the Elf.

"I had thought to talk with Cierre," Elladan said, "but there will be time for that later. My brother and I will, as you request, look after the rear."

"Cierre, and Gimli," Aragorn continued, "your keen night-eyes, I deem, would be best employed in scouting the path ahead. I do not believe that foes may lie in wait, for the fear of the Dead keeps all away, but there may be natural dangers. The road, long untraveled, may have collapsed into chasms, or rock-falls may threaten. No doubt you would detect such perils better than we who are less familiar with the underground."

Cierre had been about to move to the rear to join the two handsome Elves. She reversed her course and managed to keep her annoyance at Aragorn's decision from showing on her face. "You are wise, _Jabbuk_, and I shall do as you wish," she assented, and took up a position in the lead with Gimli at her side. They led the way through the archway and into the Paths of the Dead.

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The presence of the Dead could be felt all around. The horses shrank from the darkness and did their best to stay within the circles of light emanating from the magical gems. The Rohirrim warriors, too, were nervous; to them this road was a place of dread, the subject of childhood tales of terror, and passing through the door had taken every ounce of their courage. Even Gimli was visibly ill at ease and held his axe poised for action at all times.

"Shadows," Cierre observed, and then it occurred to her that the word for the type of Undead was identical to that for the natural shadows which filled the tunnel. "The shades of Men who exist, neither dead nor alive, as shapes of darkness," she clarified. "Their touch chills and drains away the strength of any who come into contact with them. There are hundreds of them all around us. An army of the Dead."

"Exactly," said Aragorn. "They were condemned to this state for breaking their oath to fight against Sauron. They must fulfil that oath to be freed."

"Ah," said Cierre. "So that is how we can ride to the relief of a city with a force of but forty-one."

"Indeed so," Aragorn confirmed. He did not elaborate. No-one spoke at all for a considerable time. The oppressive atmosphere in the underground labyrinth was not conducive to conversation. Only the clop of the horses' hooves broke the silence as the Grey Company walked on.

Eventually, after having walked for around half an hour, they came to a place where the main tunnel emerged into a large chamber. It was wide enough to extend beyond the range of their lights and, for the first time since they had passed through the doorway, they were no longer confined by walls close at each side. Something metal lay on the floor of the chamber, quite some distance out, at the fringe of the area illuminated by their lights. Cierre recognised the glints of gold and of steel.

Aragorn, with Halbarad at his side, moved out into the chamber and approached the object. The light revealed it to be a corpse, or more accurately a skeleton, clad in gilded mail and helm. Not far beyond the body was the far wall of the cavern and a door, firmly shut, was set into the wall. A notched and broken sword lay inches from the skeletal fingers.

"Does he feel no fear?" Gimli muttered. "In any other cave Gimli Glóin's son would be the first to run to the gleam of gold. But not here! Let it lie." Yet when Cierre followed Aragorn toward the body Gimli went with her.

Aragorn squatted down beside the corpse, stared at it, and uttered a sigh. Cierre guessed that there was some story behind the dead man's presence in this place that was known to Aragorn. It would be meaningless to Cierre, as she had not yet acquired enough background knowledge of this world to understand their legends, and her only interest was in the valuable items on the corpse. She doubted if Aragorn would let her loot the body and so she paid it only cursory attention. Instead she looked around at the cavern. This would have made an ideal place for a rest camp, she thought, save that it was far too soon for more than the briefest of halts. It even seemed to be free of the oppressive presence of the Dead.

Then, just as Aragorn was opening his mouth to speak, Cierre caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Something with body heat, not an Undead, rising from concealment behind a boulder. She detected more movement and heard whispers of sound.

"Ambush!" Cierre yelled, releasing her horse's bridle and drawing sword and axe. Her warning came too late.

A volley of crossbow quarrels hissed through the air. Simultaneously a streak of red fire flew across the cave and erupted in a globe of flame in the midst of the Company. Men and horses screamed and went down. A trio of figures materialised out of thin air in the middle of the cavern; eight feet tall, bulging with muscle, and wielding clubs set with vicious spikes. Trolls they were to those of Middle Earth but Cierre knew them as Ogres. They snarled out an unintelligible challenge and aimed deadly blows at the nearest humans.

"_Ultrinnan_!" The Drow battle-cry sounded from all sides and a wave of sword-wielding warriors charged out from their concealed positions.

And then the ancient Rohir corpse stretched out a hand to take up its sword, rose to its feet, and attacked Aragorn.

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Grimthain of Rohan saw the arising corpse, heard the cries of '_Ultrinnan_!', and saw the charging attackers who had the colouration of Cierre. His nerve broke. He came from a simple farming village and, though he had trained for war and won a place in one of the elite éoreds, he had never envisaged a battle such as the one that faced him now. His first instinct was to mount his horse but it reared in panic and kicked out. He abandoned it, turned, and ran back the way the party had come.

A small dark figure, white hair showing from beneath a helm, blocked his path. Grimthain had seen Cierre's deadly swordplay and knew that the dark shieldmaiden was skilled far beyond his abilities. This member of her race, however, was much shorter and surely could not match her strength. He rushed at the ambusher, sword raised, unclear even in his own mind if his objective was to kill or simply to clear the way so that he could flee.

The Drow swordsman saw the upraised arm, and the exposed vulnerable spot at the armpit, and thrust with smooth and practiced precision. Grimthain felt a searing pain, all the strength went out of his arm, and his sword fell to the ground.

The Drow withdrew his short-sword, in a welter of blood that splattered over the cavern floor, and allowed his dying opponent to fall. Then he moved on to seek out a fresh victim. The closest enemy was a tall _Darthiir_ wielding a matched pair of long, slightly curved, swords. The Drow advanced, gliding forward with smooth steps, and began an attack sequence. He was confident of victory right up to the moment when the _Darthiir's_ left-hand blade laid open his throat.

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Aragorn confronted the corpse of the ancient Rohir. Grey translucent flesh clung to its bones and an unholy blue light flickered in empty eye sockets. A barrow-wight, like unto those of Tyrn Gorthad, or so it seemed to Aragorn. He could not think how it came to be here, where the Dead walked indeed but in a very different form, but there was no time now to ponder the mystery. Survival, and victory in this unexpected battle, must come first.

The wight attacked. Once the body it inhabited had been Baldor son of Brego, heir to the throne of the Mark, and it wielded its weapon with all the skill and might of the long-dead Rohirric prince. Yet against Aragorn son of Arathorn, trained in combat by the sword-masters of Imladris and tempered by long years of warfare, Baldor would have striven in vain. The undead spirit, hampered by its broken sword, fared no better. Aragorn swept aside the wight's weapon, clove through its arm, and then brought Andúril down on the helm of the wight and shattered the ancient skull. The animated corpse collapsed into a heap of crumpled mail and shards of bone.

With the wight disposed of Aragorn turned, intending to join Halbarad and Gimli in fighting the trolls, but then saw two Drow heading straight for him. One came in aggressively, with twin swords poised to strike; the other halted ten feet away and raised a small 'crossbow' like the one Cierre had given to Gimli. Aragorn could not take evasive action without exposing himself to the swordsman; he could only rely upon his chain-mail hauberk to turn aside the bolt. Then, as the crossbowman was aiming, an Elven arrow buried itself in his throat. Aragorn gave silent thanks to Legolas and parried the first sword-thrust.

He saw an opening, raised his sword to bring it down upon his opponent's head, and then suddenly realised that the second sword was angling upwards and his armpit was exposed. The opening had been feigned, a lure to draw him out, and the counter-strike was coming. Immediately Aragorn reacted as Cierre had told him, bending away and lashing out with his leg, and the Drow took the kick in his mid-section and was knocked from his feet. The deadly sword-thrust went wild. Aragorn stepped forward, reaching the Drow before he could regain his feet, and Andúril swept down with lethal effect.

Aragorn turned back toward the trolls. He saw that two of them were dead now and Gimli and Halbarad were pressing the surviving monster hard. Then a figure appeared out of nowhere behind Halbarad. A Drow woman, slim of build and half a foot shorter than Cierre, but she held a short-sword in each hand and she was already in the act of striking. There was no time at all to react. She thrust her right-hand blade into Halbarad's lower back, in the kidney region, and drove it home to the hilt. Her left-hand sword went between his legs and bit deep into his inner thigh in the region of the femoral artery. Halbarad arched his back, cried out in agony, and fell face-first to the floor with blood gushing from the dreadful wounds.

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Cierre raced across the cavern in the direction from whence had come the Fireball. Her heart urged her to join Aragorn and Gimli; her head told her that a Drow mage was present, and was a deadly threat to the Company, and must be found and slain. She followed the dictates of her head. As she ran she observed something that confirmed to her that she had made the right decision.

A Ranger fought against the sword of an invisible opponent. He parried the weapon and riposted, thrusting home at the place where the sword's wielder should have been, but his blade struck only empty air. The Ranger stumbled, thrown off balance by the lack of resistance, and suffered a deep cut to his shoulder as the opposing sword slashed at him. It was, Cierre recognised, a Mordenkainen's Sword. No hand wielded it, there was no swordsman who could be defeated, only the power of a spell that would keep up a relentless attack until the spell ran its course or the wizard was slain. And that was what Cierre intended to do.

Baldheort of Rohan followed behind Cierre, sword and shield at the ready, determined to give the woman who had saved his life at Helm's Deep whatever support he could offer. It was only moments before his aid was required.

A Drow swordsman in plate armour barred Cierre's path. To one side another warrior aimed a hand crossbow at the running girl and loosed a quarrel. It glanced harmlessly from her enchanted Greenleaf armour but at once he began to reload.

Cierre confronted the swordsman, hooked aside his shield with her axe, and rammed her sword through his armour and into his stomach. She ripped the blade free and ran on leaving her opponent to bleed to death. Baldheort veered from his path, caught the crossbowman in the middle of reloading, and delivered a blow that ensured that there would be no second shot. The Rohir then resumed his course in Cierre's wake, running as fast as he dared in the dim light, although inevitably he lagged behind the lightning-swift Drow girl.

Cierre spotted her target. A mage indeed, a male Drow clad in robes, but the black of his skin was obscured by the granite texture of a Stoneskin. Against that protection the blows of a normal sword or axe would be futile. Luckily Heleg Naur and Frostreaver were by no means normal and Cierre was confident that she could disable the wizard in short order. Of course first she had to get past the swordsman who stood guard over the mage and, more significantly, run the gauntlet of his offensive spells…

He aimed a hand at her, fingers outspread, and a spray of white vapour shot forth in an expanding cone. It washed over Cierre and left her completely unharmed. She grinned as she continued her charge. Cone of Cold could hardly have been a worse choice as a spell to use against the Auril-worshipping Cierre; she was forbidden by her religion to light fires for warmth and, as she lived in a region where the winters were severe, she had equipped herself with magical protections that made her immune to extremes of temperature. She ignored the Cone of Cold, reached the mage's bodyguard, and buried Frostreaver in his skull. She left it there, freeing up her left hand, and continued her charge at the wizard.

She didn't realise that, to her rear, the blast of ultra-frigid air had struck Baldheort. A Faerûnian might have recognised the spell, closed his eyes and held his breath, and perhaps survived even without magical wards. Baldheort, unaware of the peril, took no such precautions and breathed in the super-cooled air. The blood-vessels in his lungs froze and ruptured. He collapsed, clutching at his throat, and was dead within thirty seconds.

Cierre, oblivious to Baldheort's fate, was concentrating on the mage. She clamped her left hand over his nose and mouth and drove him backward until he was up against the cavern wall. Cierre slammed his head against the rock three times, dazing him despite the Stoneskin and preventing him from taking any action to free himself and cast spells, and then took her hand away from his mouth while keeping his nostrils pinched shut. The wizard's mouth gaped wide as he gasped for air.

And Cierre thrust the blade of Heleg Naur into his open mouth. The enchanted sword froze anything that it touched, which was how she had blinded the Dunlending at the gate of the Hornburg, and the resultant damage to the tissues of mouth and throat might have been sufficient in itself to be fatal. Cierre made certain by forcing the blade upward through the roof of the mage's mouth and into his brain.

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Aragorn strode grimly toward the woman who had mortally injured his friend and kinsman. She had followed up her attack on Halbarad by striking out at Gimli. The battle-wise Dwarf had parried her attacks but he had been forced to turn away from the troll and a glancing blow from its spiked club sent him sprawling on the ground. The monster raised its weapon for a finishing blow but an arrow whistled through the air and pierced the troll's eye. The beast released the club and toppled like a falling tree. Gimli rolled aside just in time to avoid being crushed. The Drow woman stabbed down at him and the tip of her blade nicked his leg between boots and hauberk. She did not follow up but turned away, toward Aragorn, and advanced with light quick steps almost as if dancing.

Aragorn set his course to meet her. He moved with caution, for her footwork showed her to be a skilled fighter, and he suspected that she might even be the equal of Cierre. This woman would lack the taller Drow's devastating power, of course, but the light short-swords she carried would enable her to make full use of her speed. Not an opponent to be taken lightly. And then, as they closed, Aragorn found himself enveloped in a shroud of absolute blackness. The light from Halbarad's gem, which now lay on the cavern floor, was blotted out.

At once Aragorn realised his peril. Unable to see, faced with a skilled swordswoman, he would be at as big a disadvantage as had been the Dunlendings against Cierre. Unlike them, however, he was forewarned and far better trained. He spun his sword in a defensive box manoeuvre, making any attack on him hazardous, and backed away. He tried to listen for any noise that would warn him of the Drow's approach but there was so great a din from all around that any such sounds were drowned out. Aragorn heard the clash of weapons, battle cries and the screams of the wounded, the whinnying both of frightened horses and of angry stallions fighting, and – impossibly – the growl of some large wild beast. And it was close at hand; very close.

Aragorn emerged from the darkness and at once moved abruptly to the side. He was wary of attack from out of the dark globe yet knew that another threat was near. He spun on his heel, bringing up his sword to a guard position, and saw a creature out of nightmare barely a spear's length away. Like a lion it was, but taller and longer, and its pale tawny fur was marked with black vertical stripes. Its canine fangs were as long as daggers. Aragorn had no way of knowing that this was a Dire Tiger, for such beasts had never walked this world and the normal tigers of Middle Earth dwelt only in the uttermost East, but he recognised it as a supremely deadly predator. He had encountered lions in Harad and, applying his knowledge of them to this similar but larger beast, he knew that if he turned his back then it would pounce. And once those dreadful jaws closed on his neck he would be as a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Yet if he continued to face it then he exposed his back to the blades of the Drow woman. It was a terrible quandary yet one that he must solve quickly.

Aragorn manoeuvred sidelong, in a semi-circle, keeping his blade aimed directly at the great beast. He was heading for the place where he had last seen Gimli; if they could stand back-to-back then the danger of attack from behind would be removed. Aragorn shot glances to the side, hoping to see Legolas aiming his bow at the striped lion, but instead, to his dismay, he saw that his friend was wielding his knives in close combat against a mail-clad Drow warrior. There would be no aid from that quarter. Aragorn looked in the direction he had last seen Cierre; he saw no sign of her. She had, no doubt, gone out of the illuminated area and was somewhere in the darkness. Or she had been slain; these members of her race were, presumably, the foes from whom she had fled and who had somehow managed to follow her trail. She would be their primary target; hard to kill, indeed, but no-one was invincible. He could only hope that she lived still and was out there, alone, fighting in her own inimitable style.

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Cierre was Hunting. She had slain the mage, and another lesser wizard who had been shielded only with Mage Armour, but she knew that there was another deadly foe lurking somewhere. Only a cleric, almost certainly a priestess, could have summoned the Wight. The Dire Tiger could have been summoned by a third mage but Cierre would wager coin that the priestess had been responsible for that too. And, if not found and stopped, the priestess would Raise the fallen Drow so that the Company would have to slay them twice.

There was one thing that puzzled Cierre. A priestess of Lolth would, as a matter of course, have summoned giant spiders to aid the Drow in the fight. Yet she had seen no sign of such summonings. Perhaps the priestess had kept them back to serve as a personal guard. If so Cierre, protected as she was against venom by her Amulet of Health, would cleave through them with ease.

Then she located the cleric, a priestess as she had guessed, and saw the answer to the puzzle. The priestess did not display the spider emblem of Lolth; instead it was a picture of a female Drow hand, bedecked with silver rings, which adorned her shield. This was a priestess of Kiaransalee, the Revenancer, the Drow goddess of the Undead. The creature she had retained as a personal guardian was no spider but a Skeleton Knight, armed with a two-handed sword, against which Cierre was as vulnerable as anyone else. And the priestess spotted Cierre, silhouetted against the glow of the light gems, before Cierre saw her. The priestess launched an immediate attack in the form of a spell.

Flame Strike.

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"I'm with you, Aragorn," Gimli said, from near at hand. "We'll stand together and see off these foes."

Aragorn felt a flood of relief on hearing the voice of his staunch Dwarven comrade. "Even so, Gimli," he said, in Westron so that the Drow would not understand. "I will face the striped beast, for the point of a sword would be better against it than an axe, and you keep the sword-maiden's blades from my back."

"I'll do my best," said Gimli, "but she's as fast as Cierre. Still, I am no sluggard myself." He lowered his voice, seemingly not trusting to the security of a language that the enemy would not speak, and imparted unwelcome information to Aragorn. "My leg's stiffening up where I was cut," he said, "and it will hamper me in wielding my axe. I have the advantage of reach, and I should be able to keep her back, but I may not be able to slay her."

Aragorn frowned. If the indomitable Dwarf was admitting to a weakness then his wound must be disabling indeed. Yet it had seemed to Aragorn that the Drow woman had caught Gimli with but the tip of her sword and could have inflicted little more than a scratch. Perhaps it had damaged a tendon, or chipped Gimli's kneecap; Aragorn would have liked to examine the injury – no, to cast one of the spells of Healing which were so new to him – but to do so right now would be suicide.

Then Cierre's horse, blood-spattered and with eyes rolling madly, galloped past. Perhaps it was fleeing in blind panic, or it may have been seeking out its rider, but it came into the view of the Dire Tiger and triggered an immediate reaction. The huge cat turned away from Aragorn, waggled its hips, and then exploded into movement. It accelerated to full running speed in an instant, gained on the horse, and then leaped through the air and landed on the back of its prey. The horse was smashed to the ground, thrashing wildly, and then the predator's jaws closed on its throat.

This might have been a good opportunity to attack the beast but Aragorn contemplated the idea for only the briefest of moments before discarding it. There were more urgent priorities. He wanted to take control of the battle but it was, at present, such chaos that control was impossible. Luckily the Rangers were accustomed to fighting in small groups and were at less of a disadvantage than regular troops would have been. Aragorn also wanted to tend to Gimli but that could wait; the sturdy Dwarf would last through the fight even though injured. The first priority had to be dealing with the Drow swordswoman who had stabbed Halbarad. Aragorn turned to where he had last seen her but found that she was no longer there.

She was now some distance away and engaged in a duel with one of the Sons of Elrond. She was indeed, as Aragorn had thought, a marvel with her twin swords; blindingly fast and with a skill honed in many long years of practice and battle. None of the Rohirrim, or of the human Rangers other than Aragorn himself, could have lasted more than seconds against her. But it was Elladan Elrondion, one of the deadliest warriors in all of Middle Earth, who faced her now. Their blades clashed and clashed again in a blur of thrust, cut, parry, and riposte. Neither seemed to have the advantage.

Aragorn rushed to where Halbarad lay. Perhaps he might still be alive, although gravely wounded, and a spell of Healing might yet save his life. It took only a moment for Aragorn to realise that there was no hope. Halbarad was dead. And then steel clattered on stone as Gimli's axe fell to the ground.

"Aragorn…" Gimli gasped out. He clutched at his throat. "I… can't…" And then he toppled to the cavern floor and lay still.

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Khareese fought for her life. Never had she faced an opponent of such supreme skill. She had expected to face a grim test against Cierre, unless she could take the deadly Ranger by surprise, but she had never thought a mere _Darthiir_ could prove so formidable. Every move she made was countered and it took everything she had to parry the _Darthiir's_ strikes. Yet she had an advantage that could tip the balance in her favour. Her Venomblade sword. If she could inflict even the slightest cut then the nerve toxin excreted by the enchanted blade would do the rest.

She saw the slightest of openings and launched a combination attack. Her right-hand sword was parried; her left-hand sword touched the _Darthiir's_ cheek, before it was batted aside, and broke the skin, but Venomblade was in her right and the wound was nothing more than a harmless minor cut. Then she felt a sudden searing agony as her flesh was ripped open. The opening had been a trap and the _Darthiir_ had rammed his sword up to the hilt into her belly.

Desperately Khareese brought Venomblade around in a last strike but the _Darthiir_ was ready and blocked the blow. The power of his parry knocked the poisoned sword from her hand and it fell to the ground. She was defeated and wounded perhaps unto death. There was only one thing left that she could do. She released her left-hand sword and grabbed for the pouch at her belt…

Elladan took no pleasure in his victory. Slaying an Elf-maid, and one of such amazing skill, was distasteful to him; yet this _elleth_ had slain his comrade Halbarad, in an unprovoked attack, and her death was necessary. He saw her drop her other sword and he began to withdraw his sword from her body. It did not come free easily and he put his left hand on her shoulder to gain purchase.

Khareese withdrew the Stone of Recall from her pouch. "_Faentar_!" she commanded. There was a flash of light, a clap of sound as air rushed into a sudden vacuum, and she was gone.

And so was Elladan.

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Aragorn surveyed the scene. The fighting seemed to be over. Bodies lay all around but the only figures still on their feet were Rangers and Rohirrim. He turned his attention back to the striped cat, now crouched atop the corpse of Cierre's horse, and at that moment he heard a scream from the far side of the cavern. As the scream died away the monstrous predator vanished as suddenly as Elladan had done a moment before.

Aragorn blinked, hardly able to believe his eyes, but there was no time to dwell on the mysterious happenings now. Gimli needed his aid. He saw a tear in the Dwarf's breeches, its edges stained by blood, and he sheathed Andúril and drew a knife in the sword's place. The light gem dropped by Halbarad lay nearby; Aragorn retrieved it and then used his knife to enlarge the tear so that he could examine Gimli's wound. What he saw made him gasp in a sharp intake of breath. The wound, although barely deep enough to be worthy of the name, was blackened and discoloured. The discolouration spread out up and down the leg as far as Aragorn could see.

Aragorn suspected that casting a Healing spell would be pointless, in fact perhaps even counter-productive, if the wound was poisoned. And, as Gimli was unable to move and was having difficulty in breathing, it seemed certain that the blade indeed had been coated in some venomous substance. A venom of surpassing potency, to judge by the speed with which it had taken effect, and it might be beyond Aragorn's power to keep Gimli alive. But he would not give up.

"Elrohir!" Aragorn called. "Cierre!"

Elrohir responded almost at once but he seemed in a daze. "My brother!" he cried. "Where has Elladan gone?"

And then Cierre came into view. Her exposed skin was blistered, her hair was singed, and tendrils of smoke rose from where the fletching of the arrows in her quiver had charred into uselessness. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. And she held Baldheort's body in her arms.

"_Uk tois whol uns'aa_," Cierre said in her own language. "_L'crup zhah usst_." Then she set eyes on Gimli. "_Nau_!" she wailed. "Gimli! _Ussta abbil_!" She set down Baldheort, gently and reverently, and rushed to Aragorn's side.

"_Uk uriu tlus ulu elg'cahl_," she said, looking down at Gimli's leg. "The wound is from an envenomed blade. I do not have Neutralise Poison memorised, for my amulet protects me from all poisons, and I did not think of others. I curse myself for a fool. Quickly, we must search the bodies of our foes. They might have the spell on a scroll, or have Potions of Antidote, and those are the only ways we can save Gimli. I shall start with the priestess I slew." She turned and rushed away.

"Search the bodies of the Drow fallen," Aragorn commanded the Rangers who were gathering around him. "Look for bottles or flasks, or scrolls of parchment, and bring what you find here." As they departed on their errand Aragorn counted them and his heart sank. He could see only a dozen members of the Company plus himself and Gimli. Twenty-six lay unmoving on the cavern floor.

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Elladan blinked his eyes. He had felt a sudden sensation of movement and then everything around him had changed. The cavern around him now was vaster by far than that in which he had stood an instant ago. No longer did Aragorn stand nearby, and Halbarad and Gimli were gone from where they had lain; instead several Drow, all much smaller than Cierre, stood a few feet away. Beyond them was a tall Man, clad in black robes and a black cloak, with a long white beard and a mane of white hair. He stood between three waist-high upright slabs of stone; lines of wavering purple light stretched from those stones to his waist, wrapping round him like a belt, and the air around him shimmered. A magical prison, Elladan deduced, and then he sensed in the Man something of the same aura of power that was evident in Mithrandir. This Man, therefore, was no Man but a Wizard. Further away Elladan saw a ring of curved metal pillars around which flickered erratic bolts of lightning; he could make no guess at the edifice's purpose.

And, to all sides, Elladan saw armed Drow warriors in great numbers.

Even as he looked around he was completing the motion of withdrawing his sword from the body of the Drow swordswoman. As the blade came free, releasing a gout of blood from the wound, the _elleth_ fell to her knees. A spherical object, resembling a polished stone, dropped from her hand and rolled away. She ignored it and crawled away toward the nearby group of Drow.

"_O'goth uns'aa, Jabbress_," she gasped.

One of the Drow stepped forward to meet her. It was an _elleth_ clad in scaled armour of red and black, whose fine-featured but haughty face was topped by white hair cut severely short, and who held a spiked flail in one hand. "_Tlu o'gothus_," the _elleth_ said to the wounded one, and she stretched out her free hand and touched the bleeding swordswoman's forehead.

And the swordswoman stood up, rising smoothly and easily, as if she had never been wounded at all. "_Bel'la dos, Jabbress_," she said, and then held out her hands to her sides. "_Foluss, belbau uns'aa killianen_!," she commanded, and two of the nearby Drow _ellyn_ each tossed a sword to her. She caught them, tested their balance, and then swapped them over into the opposite hands. Next she turned to face Elladan. Instead of resuming her attack she sheathed the swords and dipped her head briefly. "_Dos ph'natha zhennu sargtlin, darthiiri jaluk_," she said. "_Usstan fridish dos_."

Elladan's eyebrows rose. The healing spells taught to him by Cierre would have been inadequate to cope with such a wound. He had driven his sword all the way through her body until the tip emerged from her back, almost certainly piercing her liver in the process, and he had seen Men at Helm's Deep far less grievously wounded require two or even three spells before they were restored to full health. Yet a single spell had healed this mortal wound instantly.

He had no idea what the _elleth_ had said to him and so made no reply. The swordswoman turned away and engaged in a conversation with the one who had healed her; Elladan understood only one word; 'Cierre'. Elladan waited, on guard but making no move to attack; against the numbers that faced him, probably all accomplished warriors if those who had ambushed the Grey Company on the Paths of the Dead could be taken as representative, it would have been suicidal. After a time the swordswoman turned back to him and spoke again. It sounded as if she was asking him a question.

"I do not understand your language," Elladan replied.

The swordswoman's eyebrows rose slightly. "I spoke in the Common Tongue," she said in accented Sindarin. "I forgot that you are from another world. Luckily I speak Sy'Tel'Quessiri." She paused for a moment and then began again. "I am Khareese of the Red Sisters. Who are you?"

"Elladan Elrondion," Elladan replied.

"You are better with a sword than anyone I have ever seen, more skilled even than Sabal or Nathyrra," Khareese went on. "It would be a shame to slay you. Drythaera has given me permission to offer you your life if you will take service in the army of the Valsharess."

Drythaera, Elladan deduced, was the flail-wielding _elleth_ who had healed Khareese. "Who is this… Valsharess?" he asked. Not that he was interested in the answer but he felt that keeping the Drow talking, and thus postponing a battle which would almost certainly end in his death, was in his best interest. Perhaps his companions would find some way to retrieve him, or to follow him; it might be a slim chance but death would end all hope.

"The great Queen of the Drow," Khareese replied to his question, "and patron of the Red Sisters organisation to which I belong."

"And what is your quarrel with Cierre?" Elladan asked.

"She killed my husband," Khareese answered.

"An understandable reason," said Elladan. He could not believe that Cierre had committed murder; he had exchanged little conversation with her but from what Aragorn had told him, and from what he had heard of her deeds at Helm's Deep, he believed her to be a redoubtable and honourable warrior. No doubt she had slain Khareese's husband in fair combat.

Drythaera, the _elleth_ with the flail, spoke in a tone of sharp impatience and Khareese's lips tightened.

"You must decide quickly," Khareese told Elladan. Behind her Elladan observed a Drow _ellon_ running up to Drythaera, bowing, and then speaking in a hasty gabble. "Choose now!" Khareese went on. "Swear allegiance to the Valsharess, or die."

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"It is bad, but not as catastrophic as I had feared," Aragorn said. "Eleven Men dead, and six horses. How is it that ten of the fallen did but sleep and, when awakened, had taken no hurt?"

"The Drow use crossbow bolts tipped with a sleeping potion," Cierre explained. "A wounded foe may fight on, and slay you before she goes down, but these darts take effect almost instantly. A sleeping foe may be slain at leisure or taken captive to be enslaved."

"And what happened to Elladan?" Aragorn asked.

Cierre grimaced. "The woman he fought must have had a Stone of Recall," she said, "an enchanted item to return her party to the place from which they were transported here. When Elladan stabbed her she must have activated it. He was touching her and so was transported along with her. He is in my world now."

"Can he return?" Elrohir asked.

"I was transported here, and those _iblith_ made their way here," Cierre answered, "and so there must be a way for Elladan to get back. Yet I fear he may be in peril. The _jalil_ must have been fleeing to where she believed she would find succour and, therefore, Elladan will have found himself among foes."

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Elladan saw a stirring amongst the Drow. Weapons were being drawn and readied, warriors were moving into new positions, and he deduced that combat was imminent. Not against him, however; they were aiming their weapons in another direction. He looked in that direction and saw more groups of Drow warriors; beyond them was a massive wooden door and it was swinging open.

Close at hand Drythaera snapped out "Khareese! _Elgg l'darthiir_!" Elladan had heard Khareese use the word '_darthiir_' when she first spoke to him and guessed that it meant something like 'pale Elf'. He deduced that Khareese was being ordered to kill him, to remove a potential danger before the impending battle, and he prepared for sudden action.

"Now, Elladan," Khareese said, raising her left hand to scratch at her ear as she spoke, "What is your answer?" She didn't wait for him to reply. Her hand blurred and a dagger, drawn from a sheath at her shoulder, flew straight at his face. Unfortunately for her Elladan had spotted the dagger as Khareese had spoken to Drythaera and he was ready for the move. He swatted the flying dagger from the air with one sword and launched a retaliatory lunge at Khareese with the other. She evaded by cart-wheeling away and put a Drow swordsman between herself and Elladan.

The _ellon_, plus two others armed with sword and shield, charged at Elladan. He sidestepped and drove the point of his right-hand sword into the throat of one of his attackers. As he did so a crossbow bolt passed through the space in which he had been standing and struck the shield of another attacker. Elladan plunged into the midst of his foes, seeking to use them as shelter from missiles, and immediately was engaged in furious combat.

In between thrusts, parries, and slashes he caught glimpses of the new force arriving to do battle with the Drow. It consisted of a mere four individuals; two Men, one of them a tall but slender fellow in robes bearing a staff, the other a gigantic warrior wielding a strange axe with heads at both ends of the shaft; a woman of the race of Men, armed with an equally odd double-ended weapon but with sword blades rather than axe-heads; and a black-clad Drow _elleth_, wielding two swords after the manner of Khareese.

Despite the small number of the group they proved lethally effective in carving their way through the ranks of the Drow. The warriors slew all who came within reach of their weapons and the Man shot forth fire from his fingers to slay those further away. One of the Drow near to Elladan stretched forth his hand and sent bolts of energy streaking through the air to strike the Man; however they fizzled out when they struck home, seemingly doing no harm, and that Drow never got a chance to try again because Elladan rammed a sword through his back.

Drythaera raised her flail on high and shouted out "_Luctif oura, doer fotus_!" In response to her call an enormous striped feline, like the one that had appeared in the cavern on the Paths of the Dead, materialised out of thin air and raced toward the newcomers. The robed Man, or wizard, extended his hand and the floor in front of the beast became black and glossy. The beast ran onto the black area and at once its legs shot out from under it. It sprawled on the ground, frantically clawing for traction without success, and slid helplessly along until it bowled over two Drow warriors and crashed into a rock wall. Before it could rise the giant axe-man pounced on it, swung his mighty double-headed weapon, and delivered a blow that bit deep into the huge cat's back and appeared to sever its spine.

Elladan saw only brief snatches of what was happening at the far end of the cavern. His attention was concentrated on his own battle. He killed, killed again, and then received a blow from Drythaera's flail that fell on his left shoulder and felt as if it had broken a bone. His sword fell from his hand and his arm became numb and almost useless. To pause long enough to cast a healing spell would be to die. All he could do was to fight on with a single blade.

He redoubled his efforts, trying to compensate for the loss of the weapon, parrying with frantic haste and striking out at every opening. His armour saved him from an un-parried strike, and another, but then his blade stuck fast in a foeman's armour just as he caught a glimpse of Khareese, twin blades in her hands, slipping behind him. He remembered what had happened to Halbarad and sensed that his doom was upon him. In desperation he released his sword, drew a knife, and spun around to face Khareese. He would be at a huge disadvantage, with but one working hand against her two swords, but he would not passively accept death. Khareese grinned mirthlessly and effortlessly parried the thrust Elladan aimed at her. Her other blade licked out…

…only to go astray and falter as Khareese stumbled and cried out in bitter pain. Behind her Elladan saw another Drow _elleth_, clad in black leather and a black cloak, recovering from a lunge and pulling free a bloody blade from Khareese's body. The Drow member of the party of newcomers, Elladan deduced, although he would not have recognised her from the brief glimpse he had had of the arriving group. There was no time to thank her. He threw his knife at the nearest Drow, an _ellon_ who had somehow surrounded himself with a shield of flame, and grabbed for the sword that was still lodged in the body of a fallen foe. He put his foot on the corpse and heaved until the sword came free. In a continuation of the move he lashed out and slew a charging warrior. His new Drow ally used her twin swords to slay another.

Elladan then found himself, for a brief moment, unengaged and used the respite to cast the most powerful of the healing spells Cierre had taught him. At once his shoulder ceased to pain him and he found himself able to use the arm once more. His discarded sword lay near at hand; he swept it up and was once more full ready for combat.

In the nick of time. He came under attack from a new and terrifying opponent; a seven-foot tall skeleton clad in heavy armour, wielding a great-sword, with an eerie blue light shining from the eye-sockets of its grinning skull. Its sword-strokes were slow but too heavy to be blocked. Then Drythaera returned to the attack and now flames were licking up from her spiked flail.

Elladan side-stepped as the skeleton's sword swept down, then he parried Drythaera's flail, and drove his other blade through her scaled armour and into her midriff. To his amazement she ignored the wound and smote him with the fist of her free hand. The blow rocked him as if it had been delivered with a mace. He stumbled back, his sword coming free of her body, and only a small trickle of blood came forth from what should have been a grievous wound. Drythaera swung her flail again with undiminished power and speed.

A bolt of energy streaked past and slammed into one of the glowing stone slabs that surrounded the trapped wizard. The stone cracked and split. The Drow _elleth_ who had slain Khareese spun away from the warrior she was fighting and lashed out a kick at the stone. It broke along the crack and toppled over. At once the line of light between it and the wizard was extinguished.

Elladan recognised the significance. The stones were the source of the magic imprisoning the black-clad wizard. The _elleth_, and the other wizard who must have been responsible for the energy bolt, sought to free him. His imprisonment implied that the Drow feared him; Elladan guessed that the wizard, once freed, would be a formidable ally. It made sense for him to aid the _elleth_ and her friends in their objective. Yet how to do it? His blades would merely chip the stones, and perhaps be blunted in the futile attempt to break them, and kicking such slabs of rock would achieve nothing unless they were already cracked. Then an idea struck him.

Elladan danced aside, bobbing and weaving, avoiding all blows and leading the skeletal warrior and Drythaera after him. He took up a position in front of one of the two remaining stones. His Drow ally ran to join him and attacked Drythaera. The skeleton, as Elladan had anticipated, brought its great-sword down in a blow intended to cleave through his head. Elladan sidestepped and, with the flat of his left blade, steered the skeleton's sword so that it came crashing down upon the stone slab. A piece broke from the weapon's blade and clattered on the ground. There was no dramatic effect on the stone but Elladan thought he detected a slight crack; he drove the sole of his boot against it, hoping that his perception was correct, and was rewarded by seeing one side move slightly while the other side stayed still.

The friendly Drow _elleth_ aimed a cut with the longer of her two swords against the legs of the skeletal warrior. The blade was slender, designed for piercing rather than slashing, and Elladan doubted if it could harm bone unclad in vulnerable flesh; yet his expectations were confounded as the sword sheared through the bones and sent the animated skeleton crashing to the ground.

Again Drythaera attacked. Her burning flail swept through the air on a trajectory that could not possibly be deflected into contact with the stone pillar. This, however, made it easy for Elladan to evade the blow. A plan formed in his mind and, on the instant, he acted. He rammed his blades into Drythaera's body again, caring not for the severity of the wounds he inflicted, and released his grip upon the hilts to leave the swords within the wounds. Then he seized Drythaera's arm and wrestled with her for control of her weapon.

The Drow was extremely strong for her size and would have given a fair account of herself against an average Man. Elladan, however, was no Man and also possessed strength out of proportion to his size – and he was more than a foot taller than her and much heavier. Also she mistook his purpose, believing that he sought to wrest the flail from her grasp, and part of her striving was misdirected. Instead he took control of her arm and used it to bring the flail whirling down so that it struck the slab of stone.

And it shattered into a dozen pieces.

Unseen by Elladan, who had had other matters to occupy his attention, the staff-bearing wizard had already destroyed the other intact slab with a bolt of energy. When the last one shattered the magical prison was dispelled and the black-robed wizard was free. He shouted out something unintelligible, no doubt an invocation of some kind, and scores of bolts of brilliant energy shot forth from his extended hands. They streaked through the air and struck all the remaining Drow, save for the one who had aided Elladan, and those they struck cried out, writhed in brief agony, and then died where they stood.

The battle was over.

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"It is my fault," Cierre said. "I brought this upon you, _Jabbuk_. It is my fault that Halbarad is dead and Elladan is gone. I am shamed."

Aragorn shook his head. "Do not blame yourself, Cierre," he said. "Could you have known your foes would follow you to Middle Earth? I think not. And, had they followed your course, they would have arrived at Amon Hen and been many long leagues from here. I know not what evil chance, or mysterious power, placed them here in our path but I know that it is not your fault."

"You spoke of this with me," Gimli said, "and rejected the possibility for reasons which I still think were valid. You cannot be blamed for what you could not know. And you saved my life."

"And cost Baldheort his life," Cierre said, "and Halbarad, and others. Had I not come here they would have lived."

"Or died at Helm's Deep," Aragorn said. "You stood with us, and declared our foes to be yours, and I can do no less. Your foes are our foes and these enemies of yours, who attacked without warning, are as much our enemies as Saruman and Sauron. Put aside what guilt you feel, for it is not warranted, and if you feel you must make amends then do so by fighting at our side once more."

Cierre bowed deeply. "I… I thank you, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn," she said. "You are a wise and noble leader. I think that, when I met you at that hill-top ruin, it was the most fortunate event of my life. I will do my part in the defence of Minas Tirith. But I will need another horse."

"There are horses to spare," Aragorn said. The horses had fared better in the fight than had the Men; in fact they had inflicted heavy casualties upon the Drow. Seven of the Drow – and, indeed, one of the Rangers - had perished under the hooves of angered or terrified horses. "We shall find one for you." He turned to the surviving Rangers and Rohirrim and addressed them in Westron.

Gárod stepped forward. "Let Cierre take Baldheort's horse," he suggested. "I know he would have wished this."

"I thank you," Cierre said. She was feeling somewhat overwhelmed and could find no more words.

Aragorn took up the reins of his own horse Roheryn. "Our dead have been laid to rest as best we could, in this place where they will be safe from the depredations of wild beasts, and we have taken all that might be of use from the bodies of the fallen foes," he said. "Now we must move on, and travel swiftly, for we have lost time that we could ill afford to spare. And I must summon the Dead to follow us."

Elrohir moved to speak to Cierre. "Will my brother be able to return to us?" he asked.

Cierre grimaced. "I know not," she confessed. "There must be a way, for my foes managed it, but I do not know how it was done."

"He is resourceful and enduring," Elrohir said. "If it is possible then Elladan will manage it."

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Elladan tensed slightly as he saw the giant axe-man clearly for the first time. The Man's heavy overhanging brows, and undershot jaw with a hint of tusks about his teeth, implied that he had Orcish blood. Yet his bearing was that of a proud warrior, his clothes and armour were clean and well cared for, and when he spoke his voice was warm and resonant rather than the harsh and guttural croaking of the Orcs with which Elladan was familiar. The axe-man spoke no Elvish, however, and so there was little interaction between him and Elladan.

The wizard of that company turned out to be nothing like Mithrandir. He was a young Man, probably only a few years into adulthood, with a straggly beard. In place of Mithrandir's air of calm authority this wizard had an engaging grin and an air of puppyish enthusiasm. His name was Prentice. He said that his Elvish was 'Evil', which confused Elladan until he realised that Prentice meant 'not good', and they exchanged only a few words before Prentice turned his attention to the older wizard who had been rescued from imprisonment.

Elladan ended up, not to his displeasure, talking to the two female members of the company. The human woman, Sharwyn, was fair to look upon and had a voice that was remarkably pleasant to the ear. However Elladan found the Drow _elleth_ more appealing, although she was less fair of face, perhaps overly sharp-featured for true beauty; interesting, he would describe her, rather than beautiful. Her name was Nathyrra; the last member of House Kant'tar, she told him, though he knew not what she meant by that. She was, like most of her race, tiny; no more than five feet tall, and slim of build. Yet she had shown herself to be a warrior of great ability. Khareese, Elladan remembered, had spoken of Nathyrra as a skilled swordswoman, using her as a benchmark against which she had measured Elladan, and he asked Nathyrra about the other Drow.

He could not follow all of her reply, as she referred to people and places of which he had no knowledge, but he gathered that Nathyrra had served in the forces of the Valsharess but had deserted to join a peaceful faction of the Drow. Khareese had been her comrade, once, but then they had become sworn enemies. Khareese was dead now but the Valsharess lived on and sought to conquer all that Nathyrra held dear.

"Will you join with me to oppose her?" Nathyrra asked. "Your swords would aid our cause greatly."

"I would like to aid you, Lady Nathyrra," Elladan said, "but my duty is to my own world. It is threatened by a Dark Lord who is poised to crush all that is good and free. My comrades, and my twin brother, were on a desperate mission to stave off disaster when we were attacked by Khareese and I was transported to this world. I must return with all possible speed. Indeed, if your plight was not also dire I would ask you to come with me and lend your swords to our cause."

The corners of Nathyrra's mouth turned down. "A shame," she said, "for I would have liked to fight alongside you again, but I understand that you must put the needs of your own people first. Where is the portal that leads to your world?"

"I know not," Elladan said. "Cierre stumbled upon it by accident, that is all I know, and she gave no description of its location."

"Halaster will know," Sharwyn said, pointing with her staff-sword in the direction of the wizard who had been imprisoned. He had been joined by an identical wizard, perhaps a twin brother, and the pair of them appeared to be arguing both with each other and with the young wizard Prentice. "Alas, he might not tell you; it is said that he is mad and certainly he is capricious and not to be relied upon."

"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger," Elladan quoted.

"That describes Halaster very aptly," said Sharwyn, "but perhaps he might feel some gratitude toward us for his rescue. Or not, going by what he, or they, is saying to Prentice."

Elladan approached the wizards. The two identical ones broke off from their bickering and focused their attention upon him.

"Well, stranger, I'd guess that you want to go home," one of the Halasters said, "for you have been stranded far off and alone. Sending you back would be easy to do, but until you help me I will not help you."

"Sir Wizard, already I have helped free you from your prison," Elladan pointed out.

"Yet in doing so you helped ruin my plan," said the wizard, "and therefore you must make amends, if you can. The Valsharess trapped me, and I'll see her dead, but why should I kill her when you can instead? I won't send you back 'til the Drow Queen is slain, but once she's defeated you needn't remain."

"But-" Elladan began to protest.

The other identical Halaster cut him off. "It's no use objecting, I've made up my mind," he said. "If you don't obey me I'll leave you behind."

The Halaster who had first spoken took over. "It might be a problem that you don't speak Drow, and so I will teach you the language right now," he said. "In fact, while I'm using that Comprehend spell, I'll teach you to speak the Common Tongue as well."

"Why not take one each?" said the other Halaster. "I'll teach him Drow…"

"…And I'll teach him Common," the first picked up, "on three… one, two, now!"

Elladan had a fleeting thought that he was now experiencing what his friends in Middle Earth experienced when he and Elrohir finished each other's sentences. Then the thought was blasted from his mind by a sensation that felt as if a flash flood was surging through his head. Thoughts flickered into his consciousness, memories old and new brought to the fore in random order, becoming startlingly clear and then fading away. He remembered seeing baby Arwen for the first time; hearing Bilbo Baggins reciting a poem translated from Elvish into Westron; feeding an apple to a favourite horse that had been dead now for seven hundred years; learning a particularly cunning compound-riposte from Glorfindel; trying to pretend to his father that he was Elrohir, after an instance of childhood naughtiness, but having his deception seen through; he and Elrohir going on a hunting trip with Aragorn's grandfather Arador son of Argonui; rescuing his mother from the dens of the Orcs; returning to Imladris, after a long trek through the wild, and seeing the waterfalls glittering like liquid gold in the light of the setting sun… and a myriad more things that were gone too quickly to focus on…

…and then he found that he was down on his knees and holding his head in his hands. He heard Nathyrra snapping out "_Vel'bol inbal dos xunor ulu ukta_?" and he could understand that she was asking 'What have you done to him?' She had the shorter of her two swords in her left hand and was pointing it at the nearest Halaster.

"Didn't you listen to what I just said?" that Halaster replied. "I've inserted your language into the Elf's head."

"It hasn't hurt him, or done him any harm," said the other Halaster. "Now put down that sword or I'll burn off your arm."

Elladan stood up. "He speaks the truth," he said. "I was not harmed." Not physically, anyway; his head felt… strange, almost as if it was overfull, and – oddly – he had become ravenously hungry.

He was somewhat awed by the magic he had seen from Halaster; both his sheer destructive power, as shown in the instantaneous slaying of some thirty or forty Drow warriors, and the more subtle skill displayed by the equally instantaneous teaching of languages. Greater than his awe, however, was the revulsion he felt at Halaster's arrogance. Elladan didn't know if Mithrandir could replicate Halaster's feat of instant education – quite probably yes, as there wasn't much Mithrandir couldn't do if he set his mind to it – but he would never have forced it upon someone without asking first. It was a violation of free will – and that wasn't even considering that Halaster was effectively blackmailing Elladan into taking part in someone else's war. An action much more after the fashion of Saruman than of Mithrandir.

"Impressive," said Prentice, in another language but one now understandable to Elladan, "but I fail to see the necessity. The Elf is a superb fighter, that is evident, but so is Daelan, and Sharwyn's abilities make her formidable in combat too. Yet you insist that they return to Waterdeep and you conscript this unwilling stranger in their place. To me that makes no sense. And it makes no sense for you to have put a geas on me, compelling me to slay the Valsharess, when I'm already being paid a hundred thousand gold pieces to stop the incursions into Waterdeep – and I suspect I'll have to kill the Valsharess to achieve that objective."

"I have my reasons, which I won't explain," said one of the Halasters. "Now shut up, I don't want to hear you complain. Down to the Underdark's where you must go. You're working for me now, you can't say no. I'll teleport you, and the Elf, and the Drow; there'll be no delaying, I'm sending you now."

"But–" Prentice began. He was cut off in mid protest as both the Halasters raised their hands and gestured.

Elladan felt a sensation as if he was falling, saw his surroundings blur, and then he found that he was somewhere else again. He stood in the centre of a circular chamber, in a dome-shaped building, with Prentice and Nathyrra at his side. Directly facing him was a raised area, reached by steps, on which stood a simple and unadorned, but very tall, chair or throne. On the throne sat a female Drow, stark naked, holding a glowing white staff in her hands. All around the chamber stood dozens of Drow warriors.

They cried out upon seeing the new arrivals, drew weapons, and rushed to the attack.

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Merry pouted as he watched the Rohirrim army riding away. "I'll be going after them the first chance I get," he declared. "I can't leave Pippin alone in Minas Tirith."

"Of course," Éowyn said. "I will send you with the very first party, as soon as we hear that the road to Minas Tirith is open, and the city is not under siege. I understand how you feel. I too desire greatly to ride with Théoden King, and indeed at one time I planned to do so in disguise, but I have accepted that I have responsibilities that must take precedence over my desires. When you offered your service to Théoden you took on responsibilities and you must accept them."

"I thought that would place me at the king's side," said Merry, "and that I would still be able to rejoin Pippin."

"And instead it has placed you at my side," Éowyn said. "Be not downhearted. Théoden has charged me with taking good care of you and I shall spend as much time with you as my duties permit. Aragorn has warned me that the _holbytlan_ – Hobbits – have appetites that would put the most enthusiastic trencherman in the Mark to shame. I have taken due notice and there will be food for you in plenty – including mushrooms."

"Mushrooms?" Merry said. "Perhaps this separation won't be all bad, then."

"And Cierre has taught me some techniques of swordplay that she says were developed to enable small people to defeat much larger opponents," Éowyn went on. "I shall pass them on to you."

"We learned a few tricks on the journey, mainly from Boromir," Merry said, "but of course he was a tall and mighty Man. It would be interesting, and useful, to learn things designed for smaller folk." He cast another glance at the Rohirrim cavalry as they headed off into the distance. "But I'd rather be riding with the King."

The host riding to the relief of Minas Tirith was made up of three divisions, each of twenty full éoreds, plus the king's personal guard and the nine Rangers of the North who had volunteered their services; in all, nearly seven and a half thousand Men.

But no women and no Hobbit.

**Glossary of Drow Phrases**

• '_Jabbuk_' = 'Commander (male)'

• '_abbil_' = 'trusted friend'

• '_Ultrinnan_' = 'Victory'

• '_Darthiir_' = 'Surface Elf'

• '_Faentar_' = 'Activate'

• '_Uk tois whol uns'aa_' = 'He died for me'

• '_L'crup zhah usst_' = 'The blame is mine'

• '_Nau_' = 'No'

• '_Ussta abbil_' = 'My trusted friend'

• '_Uk uriu tlus ulu elg'cahl_' = 'He has been poisoned' (literally, 'He has been to poison')

• '_O'goth uns'aa_' = 'Heal me'

• '_Jabbress_' = 'Commander (female)'

• '_Tlu o'gothus_' = 'Be healed'

• '_Bel'la dos_' = 'Thank you'

• '_Foluss, belbau uns'aa killianen_' = 'Someone, give me swords'

• '_Dos ph'natha zhennu sargtlin, darthiiri jaluk_' = 'You are a great warrior, Surface Elf male'

• '_Usstan fridish dos_' = 'I salute you'

• '_Valsharess_' = 'Empress', or 'Queen'

• '_Elgg l'darthiir_' = 'Kill the Surface Elf'

• '_Luctif oura, doer fotus_' = 'Dire Tiger, come forth'

• '_Vel'bol inbal dos xunor ulu ukta_?' = 'What have you done to him?'

• '_Heleg Naur_' (Sindarin) = 'Ice Fire'

• '_Elleth_' (Sindarin) = 'Elf-maid'

• '_Ellon_' (Sindarin) = 'Elf-man'


	6. The Calm before the Storm

**Chapter Six: The Calm before the Storm**

"Stop!" the naked Drow _elleth_ commanded. Her troops halted their charge. "Do you not recognise one of our own? Nathyrra has returned, and with company; allies for our cause, I presume?" She stood up and descended the steps. Her guards lowered their weapons and backed away. Elladan, who had thought that Halaster had transported him directly into the lair of the Valsharess and had therefore drawn blades for what he expected to be a desperate fight, sheathed his swords.

Nathyrra bowed low. "It is good to see you again, Mother Seer," she said. "Indeed I bring you allies, and ones who have struck great blows against the Valsharess; the _rivvil_ wizard Prentice and the _darthiir_ swordsman Elladan Elrondion."

"I bid you welcome," said the nude woman. "I am Kyorli the Seer, High Priestess of Eilistraee, and circumstances have made me the leader of the forces opposed to the Valsharess." She favoured the males with a dazzling smile and held out her hand for Elladan to take.

She was, undoubtedly, extremely beautiful. Elladan saw in her something of the poise and authority of the Lady Galadriel; he could not, however, envision Galadriel presiding over a meeting in a state of total nudity – although if guests had arrived by magic when she was in a state of undress, and she had been called upon to receive them, doubtless she would have done so with the same air of calm equanimity that was displayed by Kyorli. A stray thought crossed Elladan's mind and he was hard pressed to keep his face properly straight; he pictured the Grey Company arriving in Minas Tirith, and somehow surprising Lord Denethor in his bath, and the Steward of Gondor greeting them naked with his balls dangling. Kyorli was certainly much more aesthetically appealing than Denethor, who must be quite elderly by now, would have been in the same situation.

The Seer moved on to Prentice and clasped his hand. "Drogan's apprentice," she greeted him. "It is an honour to meet you."

"The honour is all mine, Seer," Prentice said. "I am surprised that you have heard of me."

"Your fame has spread far and wide," Kyorli said, and she talked for a few moments of things that meant nothing to Elladan and didn't seem to be relevant to the current situation.

Elladan felt that it would be impolite – although very pleasant – to continue to gaze at Kyorli's naked body and so he occupied himself with looking around the chamber. It was sparsely decorated; only a single painting, depicting a Drow _elleth_ as naked as Kyorli but wielding a two-handed sword, adorned the walls. There were marks showing where other paintings had once hung, and empty plinths that may once have supported sculptures, but all were gone. And in the centre of the chamber, where he stood, a circle of flooring was paved in a crude and uneven fashion that contrasted sharply with the precision displayed in the rest of the building. Elladan deduced that there had been a mosaic there, depicting something that was anathema to the present occupiers, and it had been ripped up and hastily replaced; just as Elves would tear out images of the Lidless Eye if they took over a building dedicated to Sauron, or as Orcs would destroy or defile representations of the Valar if they captured a stronghold of the Elves.

Elladan devoted only a couple of seconds to this architectural speculation. He was much more interested in the people who surrounded him. All but one were Drow; mainly _ellith_, but a few were _ellyn_. Two of the _ellith_ were naked; the others, and all the _ellyn_, were clad in armour of mail or plate and were heavily armed. The lone non-Drow was the one who drew Elladan's eyes more than any of the others.

A male… something. He was much taller than the Drow around him, his skin was pale, and he had long red hair. His ears were pointed, similar to those of an Elf, but it was clearly apparent that he was no Elf. His head bore a pair of horns and he had a barbed tail. Elladan had never seen anything like him before. It took every ounce of his self-control to refrain from staring.

This world was strange indeed.

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"Your brother will find my world strange," Cierre told Elrohir. "There are many creatures there that I do not think exist in this world. Some friendly or harmless, but many hostile or predatory, and it is often difficult to tell which is which. And magic is much more commonly used than seems to be the case in this world."

"I believe he will cope," said Elrohir. "We have spent many long years slaying Orcs, and Trolls, and evil Men. Foes less skilled than the Drow who attacked us in the tunnels, it is true, but oft they outnumbered us a hundredfold or more. And he lives still, I am certain; I would feel it if he died."

Cierre suspected that this might not be true when the two brothers were in different worlds but she did not voice her suspicion. "Perhaps Gandalf might find a way to bring him back, once we catch up with him," she said, "or else the Lady Galadriel who Aragorn mentioned."

"Or Saruman," Elrohir suggested. "He would be unwilling to co-operate, of course, but a sword at his throat most probably would put him into a more amenable frame of mind."

"Especially if it was my sword," Cierre said. "The touch of Heleg Naur on unprotected skin is painful in the extreme. I will do all in my power to help you get your brother back but that is a matter for the future. We can do nothing at this time. First we must press on and help Aragorn relieve the siege of Minas Tirith. And, in so doing, we will fulfil the request that Boromir made of me just before he died."

"Agreed," said Elrohir. "To divert from our course to seek aid for Elladan would help no-one; not even my brother, for if the Enemy conquers Gondor the rest of the world will lie helpless before him. And Elladan would not thank me for bringing him back into a world under the dominion of the Dark One."

"Why are evil overlords always referred to as Dark Lords?" Cierre digressed. "I am offended – not by you, for you are only following the custom, but by the custom itself. What's wrong with being dark?"

"In your case, nothing," Elrohir said, "but darkness has acquired an evil name here. The Enemy's creatures fear the sun, and hide from the light of day, and it is at night that they come forth to slay and pillage. Thus has it been for thousands of years and it has made its mark in the terms that are used in our language – and in the languages of Men."

"I'm not overly fond of the sun myself," Cierre admitted, "for bright sunlight hurts my eyes, and gives me a headache, and even makes me feel nauseous if I am exposed for too long. Does that make me evil? Owls are blind in the daylight but are not evil – except to mice."

"That is…" Elrohir began, but he was interrupted by Aragorn announcing the end of the brief rest halt.

"Finish off your food and mount up," Aragorn called. "Anyone who has not yet relieved himself, do so now, for we will not halt again before we reach the Stone of Erech. And our halt there will be brief, for then we ride for Pelargir with all speed. Make haste!"

Cierre took one last mouthful from her water flask, fastened the top, and put it away. "Perhaps we might talk of this again," she said to Elrohir, "but I find it difficult to talk whilst riding. At least this horse is more tractable than my last, and I grow more accustomed to the saddle; no longer do I find myself stiff and sore when I dismount."

There was scope for innuendo there, she thought, but she was as yet not familiar enough with the codes of this place to risk making such remarks lest they offend Elrohir. Saying, flat out, "I'd much rather mount and ride you than the horse" might reduce the chances of her being able to put her desires into practice. And, with his twin brother missing and probably in jeopardy, this wasn't the right time.

"Later, then," said Elrohir, and he vaulted lightly onto the back of his horse.

Cierre hesitated for a second and then decided that this horse was steady enough to permit her to emulate Elrohir's move. She vaulted up, just as lightly, and settled herself in the saddle. No doubt Éomer, had he been there, would have either ignored her feat, taking it for granted, or made some patronising remark. Elrohir, however, nodded and gave her a brief smile that she interpreted as being one of approval. Cierre smiled back.

She was fairly sure that Elrohir liked her but was less sure that he found her attractive. And she had little idea of the courtship customs of this world. It was a shame that she had not been able to talk about the subject with Éowyn; she had had every intention of doing so but there had not been time. Apart from agreeing that Aragorn probably was _do'ch_, and Cierre mentioning that she did find Éowyn's brother physically attractive, the only mention of men in their conversation had been the best way to dismember them with a sword.

Cierre looked forward to being able to talk with Éowyn again. Unfortunately that would not be possible until Sauron's army, advancing to besiege Minas Tirith, had been defeated. Well, the same situation had applied when Saruman's army had threatened Rohan. She'd said, then, that she'd just have to kill all of them. And Saruman's thirteen thousand Men and Orcs had been destroyed in a single night. Sauron, she had been told, had far larger armies; to be counted in hundreds of thousands rather than tens of thousands. Cierre wrinkled her nose. Killing that many was going to take _ages_.

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Éowyn could have cheerfully strangled Cierre, had the Drow girl been there, for she was finding the administrative work of organising the refuge at Dunharrow both taxing and boring. It had been Cierre's words that swayed Éowyn into accepting the duty that had been laid upon her, instead of following her first impulse and running off, dressed as a man, to join the army on its march to Gondor. Yes, it was an honour, but one that she would rather have done without.

"I am sorry, Meriadoc, but I fear that it will be long ere I can fulfil my promise to teach you the tricks of swordplay that Cierre showed me," Éowyn said to the Hobbit. "I have much to do, ensuring that all here are properly supplied and no-one goes short, and the task is occupying all of my time. I feel I am being a poor host, and indeed I would much prefer to be entertaining you as you deserve, but I have no choice. My duties to my people must come first."

Merry sighed. "I understand," he said. "Perhaps I could do something to help. It isn't fair for me to be doing nothing, other than picking mushrooms, when you are working so hard. I could act as your scribe, perhaps, if that would be helpful."

"It would indeed," Éowyn said, "except that I do not think that there are any writing materials here. Few of my people can read or write." It struck her that this was, perhaps, how Gríma Wormtongue had inveigled himself into a position of power and influence; by taking on the clerical tasks that few others had either the ability, or the inclination, to perform and gradually making himself indispensable.

"It's easy to make quills," Merry said.

"True," Éowyn agreed, "and there may be some sheets of vellum here – we sell it to merchants who trade with Gondor – but I doubt if there will be ink. Certainly I did not think to bring any."

"I know how to make ink," Merry said. "Cousin Bilbo taught Frodo and Frodo taught me. The best ink would take a long time to make, and needs ingredients such as oak galls which might be hard to find, but I know a quick and easy recipe. All we need is soot or lamp-black, white of egg, and honey."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "As simple as that? Egg-white and honey will be easy to come by. I am not so sure about soot, however; there are only a few permanent dwellings here in Dunharrow and tents do not have chimneys. And oil-lamps are rare, outside of Edoras, and I do not know if we will be able to find lamp-black here."

"Powdered charcoal will do," Merry said, "although soot is easier."

"Then let us see what we can find," Éowyn said, smiling at the Hobbit. "Being able to write things down will make things much easier. I should be able to find time to teach you swordplay after all."

One advantage of being in command was that Éowyn could delegate. She sent one of the household staff to fetch a couple of eggs and some honey, dispatched another to seek out soot, and set off, with Merry in tow, to look for vellum.

"It needs a final preparation," Merry said, a little later, as he scrutinised the result of their search. "A rub with a smooth stone and then with chalk. I've already found some chalk; I thought perhaps I could take notes for you on a piece of slate."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "It seems you think of everything," she said. "No doubt you will do a better job of fashioning the feathers into quills than would I."

"Well, Frodo does it better than I do, but I can fashion a serviceable pen without much trouble," Merry said. "I'll need some boiling water and a sharp knife – smaller than this one that serves me as a sword, which would be a little unwieldy for the task."

"We can borrow one from Derngar the fletcher," Éowyn suggested. "His tools should be perfect for the task. I was going to ask him for the feathers anyway." She was impressed by Meriadoc's efficiency, and she was finding him to be excellent company; if only, she thought for a fleeting moment, he was two feet taller… She held back a sigh. There was not one amongst the warriors of the Rohirrim whom she found especially attractive. Her interest had been aroused thus far only by Aragorn, who had no interest in women; by Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was a four-foot tall Hobbit with hairy feet; and, she had to admit, by Cierre. There had been a moment, whilst the Black Elf girl had been teaching her that deadly upward cut, when Éowyn had thought that Cierre was going to kiss her. The idea had… not been entirely unwelcome. It hadn't happened, however, which was probably just as well. Although…

Éowyn wrenched the thoughts from her mind and went back to thinking about writing materials. "That will be everything that we need. We have the white of egg, and the honey, and the soot. In fact," she said, "we have far too much soot. I did not think to specify a quantity. I cannot imagine where Gléohild managed to find so much of it."

There must have been three or four pounds of soot, filling a sack that left black smears behind it wherever it rested, many times as much as was required. "Better to have too much than too little," Merry said. "I'll take what I need and dispose of the rest."

"No, keep it here," Éowyn said. "If we throw it away children will find it, and create a mess, and then I will have to deal with their irate mothers. We can get rid of it when we are about to leave Dunharrow."

"Or I can use it to play a jest upon Pippin," Merry said, with an impish grin.

Éowyn laughed. "Not too messy a jest, I hope," she said.

"I will keep it within bounds," Merry assured her, "for undoubtedly Pippin will retaliate in kind."

Éowyn was about to reply when there was an interruption.

"Lady Éowyn, might I have a word?" It was Éadmód the silversmith, who served also as a money-changer, and who had given Éowyn silver _sceatta_ of the Mark in exchange for Cierre's golden coins.

"Certainly, Éadmód," Éowyn assented.

"In private," Éadmód added. "The matter is somewhat… delicate. And there is something I must show you."

Éowyn's eyebrows climbed. She was puzzled by his choice of words. The 'delicate matter' could not be a dispute involving his apprentice, for the young man in question had ridden off with the éoreds to Gondor; nor was it likely to be the reporting of a theft, for surely that would be brought to her attention, openly, in her official capacity. "Very well," she said. They had spoken in Rohirric, which her Hobbit companion did not speak, and she switched to Westron to address him. "Excuse me for a moment, Meriadoc," she said. "Official business requires my attention."

"Of course, Lady Éowyn," Merry said. "I'll make a start on the ink."

Éadmód led Éowyn to his tent. Had he been anyone else Éowyn might have become slightly perturbed; a younger man saying that he wanted to show her something in private, and then taking her to his tent, could have meant something embarrassing at the least and positively distressing at worst. Éadmód, however, was a respectable married man, whose eldest daughter was Éowyn's age, and she had no fears that he intended anything untoward.

Once they were out of the view of curious eyes Éadmód put his hand into the scrip at his belt and pulled out a coin. He handed it to Éowyn. "I am sure you will recognise this," he said.

Éowyn stared at the golden coin. She saw a rampant dragon on one face, turned it over, and saw the emblem of a crescent moon over water. "This is one of the coins Cierre gave me to pay her wergild," she said. "Is there a problem? Are they not real gold after all?"

"They are of purer gold than the coins of Gondor," Éadmód said. "Only twice in my life have I seen coins that were their equal, and those were Dwarvish coins from the North. No, the problem is that you did not give me this coin."

Éowyn's eyes widened. "Cierre said that several coins were still missing, after her possessions were returned to her," she said, "and a few gemstones, too."

Éadmód put his hand into his scrip again and pulled out another coin and a gleaming green jewel. "Gemstones like this one?"

"Five gems, she told me, every one of them green," Éowyn confirmed. "Whoever gave you that, and the coins, must have stolen them from Cierre. Who was it?"

"It was Fréawulf," Éadmód revealed.

Éowyn's jaw dropped. Fréawulf was the Rider commanding the éored that had been allocated the duty of protecting Dunharrow while the army was away. He was a respected warrior, widely regarded as brave and steadfast although perhaps somewhat unimaginative, and one of the last people Éowyn would have ever suspected of being a thief.

"Fréawulf Gárulfsson?" Éowyn asked, just in case it was some other Rider named Fréawulf who had committed the crime, but she knew even as she spoke that her hope was futile.

"Indeed, it was Fréawulf Gárulfsson," Éadmód confirmed. "He brought one coin to me and asked me to change it for silver, which I did at the same rate as I had given you, and then produced the gemstone, and another coin, and asked me to make a silver necklace and set the jewel into it. I agreed but came straight to you."

"You did right," Éowyn said. "He must have intended the necklace to be a gift. Is he still courting Leofrun?"

"I believe so," the silversmith replied.

Éowyn nodded. "Perhaps that may be why he succumbed to temptation," she said. Fréawulf, a man in his thirties, was courting a girl of a mere eighteen summers. Not that there was necessarily anything wrong with that, in itself, but Leofrun was, in Éowyn's opinion, vain, self-centred, and avaricious. It would have been in character for her to have pilfered from Cierre's possessions, Éowyn thought, but the girl hadn't been in Edoras at the time in question. No, Fréawulf must have taken what he thought would please her, acting on sudden impulse, giving in to weakness. An understandable motive, indeed, but in no way justification for dishonesty. He would have to be punished. That would be Éowyn's duty, in the absence of the King, but she had no heart for it. And the public disgrace of one of the people's primary defenders, in this time of worry, would be a severe blow to morale. Perhaps the judgement could be postponed.

"Say nothing of this to anyone else, for now," Éowyn commanded. "I will speak to Fréawulf." She took the coins, and the emerald, and departed with a heavy heart.

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Fréawulf's face was pale as he walked away from his interview with Éowyn. The scorn in her eyes had cut him like the lash of a whip. He was irredeemably disgraced; his reputation would be forever destroyed, once the army returned from Mundburg and his misdeed was reported to the King, and never again would he be given command of an éored. And his hopes of marrying the fair Leofrun were shattered forever. All due to one moment of weakness.

But it was not theft of which he had been guilty. Indeed he would never have done something so petty as to steal coins, even gold ones, from the possessions of a visitor to Meduseld. No, his true crime was worse.

There was a good reason why he had not returned the coins and gems to the strange Black Elf woman, when the King's command had been issued; he had had no idea that they belonged to her. He had accepted them from the hand of Gríma son of Gálmód, giving no thought to where Gríma had obtained such wealth, and, in return for the largesse, he had pledged his loyalty to Gríma. Théoden, Fréawulf thought, had declined to the point where he was no longer fit for kingship and Gríma was the coming power. Then, suddenly, Théoden was restored and Gríma was cast out into exile.

At least, Fréawulf had believed, no one would know that he had pledged allegiance to one now a reviled outcast. And he still had the gold and gems. He would be able to give Leofrun a courting gift that would sway her affections decisively in his favour – he had no illusions about the importance she placed upon wealth and status – and still have enough remaining to purchase a substantial farm and probably to become Thane of a village. He had given little consideration to the origin of the gold coins; probably, he had thought, they were from some Dwarven realm in the far North where, according to legends and travellers' tales, there had been dragons in recent times.

When Théoden had led forth the éoreds to do battle against Saruman Fréawulf had volunteered to stay behind. He had anticipated that the sally, too little and too late in his opinion, would lead only to disaster. But yet again his judgement had been wrong. The army returned in triumph, after winning a crushing victory, and all had gained honour and renown save for Fréawulf. And then Théoden had decided that it made sense to retain Fréawulf in the role of commander of the detachment protecting Dunharrow. The army had set off for Mundburg leaving Fréawulf behind. He would have no chance to make a name for himself in battle; when the war was over he would be remembered, now, only as a petty thief. It was untrue but defending himself, by telling the truth, would only gain him an even worse name.

Traitor.

Fréawulf thought of walking to the cliffs and throwing himself over the edge. Yet it would solve nothing; the reason for his suicide would come out and he would be shamed even in death. Only by dying valiantly in battle could he regain his honour but, unless the Enemy came here, that one chance for redemption would be denied him.

He went to his tent, curtly telling all who spoke to him that he was unwell, and cast himself down upon his bed. Despair filled him. With all his heart he wished that the Black Elf woman had never come to Edoras.

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"I have had enough of work for today," Éowyn declared. "You have done well, Meriadoc, saving me much time and ensuring that records have been kept so that we do not have to rely solely upon memory. I have had to deal with things that I found… unpleasant. Both of us need, and deserve, to spend some time on less serious matters. Would you like to engage in some sword practice?"

"I would indeed," Merry said. "I have sat at this table long enough and my legs are sorely in need of some exercise. And I can think of no more practical way of getting that exercise than by learning more about how to handle a sword."

"Indeed, it is a skill that is needed all too often in these times," said Éowyn, "although hopefully there will be no call for it while we are here. Don your armour, then, and I shall meet you at the practice field."

An area near the main assembly of tents had been set aside for weapons practice. Wooden dummies in the shapes of men had been erected, set on stakes hammered into the earth, and there was a row of archery targets standing where stray arrows would strike harmlessly into a rise in the ground. Fréawulf had organised it; Éowyn had to admit that he had done a good job, so far, in his position of commander of the forces defending Dunharrow. If only he had kept his hands away from Cierre's valuables…

A score or so of Riders were there; shooting at the butts, striking at the dummies, or paired up to spar. A few of them stopped what they were doing, and turned to watch, as Éowyn led Merry through some warm-up exercises and then began to instruct him.

"That low blow is… vicious," Merry commented. "It makes my eyes water even to think about it. I don't know if I'd ever be able to do it in a real fight."

"In a real fight the aim is to win," Éowyn pointed out. "There is little true glory in war, as Cierre told me. Survival is what matters. Would you hesitate before striking that blow against an Orc?"

"No, I would not," Merry admitted. "I used everything I knew when I fought the Orcs who captured us at Amon Hen."

"Saruman had Men in his service, as well as Orcs," Éowyn pointed out, "and to have been captured by them would have been just as bad. And there are Men in the service of the Enemy, too. If you need to fight again you must hold nothing back. What you lack in size you can make up for with cunning, speed, and skill."

"I will," Merry said, "although I hope there is no need for any fighting while we are here." He sighed. "It is Pippin who is likely to have need of his sword, if the Enemy is going to attack Gondor," Merry said. "I wish I could have gone with him. What is he doing now, and how does he fare, I wonder?"

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Pippin, in the company of Bergil son of Beregond, walked back through the gates and re-entered the White City. They had been out on the plain, watching the arrival of the levies sent from the provinces of Gondor to reinforce the city, but now all had entered and the sun was touching the horizon.

"It seemed quite a host to me," Pippin remarked, "but from what I overheard I take it that your people had hoped for more."

"Indeed, we had thought more would come to our aid," Bergil confirmed, "but I suppose that they had to keep many of their Men back for their own defence. Foes threaten our lands on all sides. Still, among those who have come are some renowned heroes. Forlong the Fat is a mighty warrior, they say, for all his bulk. So too is Hirluin the Fair. And Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth is… oh, there he is, right ahead of us."

Pippin saw the knight, further along the street, in the act of dismounting from his horse. A tall woman, wearing the grey robes of a Healer, stood beside the horse's head. Imrahil took off his swan-crested helm, placed it over the horn of his saddle, and joined the woman.

"I had thought you would have been evacuated from the City and been safely on the way back to Dol Amroth," Imrahil said.

The woman flipped back the hood that had covered her hair and her face came into view. Pippin saw that she was young, scarcely more than a girl, and exceedingly comely. In fact she almost rivalled Arwen Evenstar and the Lady Galadriel.

"Healers are exempt from the evacuation order, Father," the girl said, "and, although I am but an apprentice, I can do my part. This is where I am needed."

"That must be the Princess Lothíriel," Bergil informed Pippin. "They say she is the fairest maid in all of Gondor."

"And they say correctly, I would judge," Pippin said. Not that he had seen many women in Gondor against whom he could compare Princess Lothíriel, for the evacuation had been completed shortly after his arrival in Minas Tirith, but he would wager there could be few in Middle Earth who could approach her radiant beauty. And, he thought as they drew nearer and he saw her more clearly, her clear grey eyes were kind and her smile held good humour. At close quarters he could see that there was a slight kink to the bridge of her nose, as if it had been broken at some time and imperfectly set, but this minor imperfection was scarcely noticeable.

"I would rather see you safe," Imrahil said, "but you are doing worthy work. I fear that healers will be sorely needed within a matter of days." He swept the maiden into a hug. "Oh, my daughter, I am so very proud of you."

Pippin and Bergil walked past the embracing pair at that point. Bergil did not speak again until they had gone far enough that he thought them out of hearing range. "The Princess is cousin to our Lord Faramir," he said. "Her father, Prince Imrahil, is a lord both noble and accomplished in warfare. We are fortunate indeed that Gondor has such Men in this time." He lowered his voice. "Although I could wish that we had more of them."

"The Riders of Rohan will come," Pippin assured Bergil, "and my friends with them. Legolas, who is a wonder with his bow, and Gimli, who is just as good with his axe, and their friend Cierre who is greatly skilled with all weapons. I wonder if they'll let Merry come with them?" He obeyed Gandalf's instructions and refrained from mentioning Aragorn.

"Well, I hope they come soon," Bergil said. At that moment bells tolled from the city's towers. "The sundown bells," Bergil said. "I must leave you. Take my greetings to my father, and thank him for the company that he sent. Come again soon, I beg."

They parted and Pippin hurried back towards the Citadel. "I don't know whether to hope Merry comes with the Riders of Rohan or not," Pippin muttered to himself, as he made the climb. "I miss him dreadfully but this doesn't seem to be a terribly safe place. They wouldn't have evacuated the womenfolk and the children if they didn't think that the city might fall. Perhaps it would be for the best if Merry stayed in Rohan. I'm sure they'll look after him well there."

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"It's getting dark," Merry said. "Time to stop, I think, but I've enjoyed this very much. And I've learned a lot."

"Indeed, you will be no easy victim for anyone who seeks to do you harm," Éowyn said. "Before we go I shall see if I can still perform the move that Cierre taught me. Now, I'll need something in my left hand to serve as a counter-balance, and I'm still not sure about doing it with a shield. Let's see if I can do it the same way that Cierre does." She approached a Rider who was wielding a hand-axe against a training dummy. "May I borrow your axe?"

"Of course, Lady Éowyn," the Rider said. He handed over the weapon and stepped back out of the way.

Éowyn took it in her left hand and, with her right, slid her sword from its scabbard. She hefted sword and axe and gave each a couple of practice swings. Then she faced the dummy, shifted her feet, and her arms blurred. The axe went down and back; the sword swept up almost too fast for the watching Riders to follow the motion. The blade struck the dummy's wooden arm, at the point where it joined the body, and severed it. The arm spun through the air and fell to the ground five feet away.

"Bema!" the nearby Rider exclaimed. "That was a blow well struck." Similar cries went up from the other Riders in the vicinity.

"I had a good teacher," Éowyn said, "and it seems I have learned well. Although dummies do not parry, nor do they strike back, and that I can do this in practice does not guarantee that I would be able to do it against an armed opponent."

"Un-armed now," Merry said.

Éowyn grimaced. "It is a fearful stroke," she said. "I had not thought I could cleave through wood in that fashion." She went to the dummy and examined where the arm had been. "A clean cut, with only a few splinters," she said. "I am amazed. I had expected that the blade would go in for perhaps an inch at most. This truly is an exceptional weapon. Light, and perfectly balanced, and with an edge keener than any I have ever seen. And yet this was merely Cierre's spare sword. The blade she wields now, the one she calls Heleg Naur, must be a marvel indeed."

"Heleg Naur," said Merry, "that is 'Ice Flame' in Elvish, if I remember rightly. Not that my Elvish is anything like as good as Frodo's. I could easily be wrong."

"You are correct," Éowyn confirmed. "Ice Flame, or perhaps Frost Fire, would be its name in Westron." She scrutinised the edge of her blade. "It is unharmed," she said. "I feared that such a blow might have marred the steel but, no, there is not even the slightest sign of damage. We have some good smiths in the Mark but the smiths of Cierre's people must be skilled beyond all measure."

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The Drow smith's eyebrows rose as he examined Elladan's sword. "This is a very fine blade indeed," he said. "Excellent steel, truly superb, and the craftsmanship is on a par with my own – perhaps, although I hate to admit it, even better in some ways."

"My father's smith, Angmir, was taught by the finest smiths of both Elves and Dwarves," Elladan said.

"I never would have thought a Surface Elf could produce anything of such a high standard," the Drow said. "I suppose the Dwarven influence explains it. However the enchantments on the weapon are not in the same class. Rather basic, in fact. An unusual technique; the enchantments are applied only to these gems set into the hilt. The blade itself is entirely un-magical."

"That's the way it is done among my people," Elladan said.

"Well, it's simply not good enough," said the smith. "If you face demons or devils, or powerful members of the Undead, your swords will simply bounce off."

"Then fix it, Rizolvir," Nathyrra put in. "The Seer wants us to investigate rumours that the Valsharess is seeking alliances with the monstrous races in this area, and to disrupt the alliances if possible, and that could well bring us into conflict with foes who are protected against non-magical weapons."

"I'd be delighted to do so," Rizolvir said. "His armour needs some repair work, I see, as there's a bit of damage to the left-hand spaulder. It's not magically reinforced at all, which is a shame, as it's pure mithral and the construction is superb. As it stands, however, a thrice-enchanted blade would go through it as if it was no better than a studded leather brigandine. I'll enchant the armour up to the level it deserves, repair the damage, and bestow suitable enchantments on his blades. I would suggest adding elemental damage charms, too, if you're likely to be fighting the Undead."

"Is that acceptable to you, Elladan?" Nathyrra asked.

"As long as it won't harm armour and swords, certainly," Elladan said.

"Do it, then, Rizolvir," Nathyrra said.

"Very well," Rizolvir said. "My fee will be quarter of a million gold pieces."

"What?" Elladan's eyes widened. "I have no money in your coinage at all and no great amount in that of my own realm. I cannot pay such a fee."

"You jest, surely, Rizolvir," said Nathyrra. "We are to fight the Valsharess and her agents. To aid us in that task is in your own interest."

"I am not motivated by greed," said Rizolvir. "The enchanting requires expensive components which will be consumed during the process."

"Diamonds, and other gems," Prentice said, nodding his head. "I can provide those. In fact I could do the enchanting myself but it would take time. And I'd prefer to keep myself stocked up with combat spells, in the present circumstances, rather than the spells necessary for enchanting weapons and armour. Now, I have several weapons and sets of armour, scavenged from dead foes, which I had intended to sell. Let's see if we can work out a deal."

After a period of bargaining a deal was struck whereby Rizolvir would cast the enchantments, using gems supplied by Prentice, and would be paid with several sets of Drow swords and armour plus an enchanted two-handed axe.

"What charms shall I cast upon the blades?" Rizolvir asked.

"I have no idea," said Elladan. "I'm not even sure what you mean by 'elemental damage charms'."

"I take it that the use of magic is much less prevalent in your world than in ours," said Prentice. "Spells cast upon the blades so that they burn, or freeze, or shock those struck by them. Thus the effect of a blow is magnified so that a trivial wound becomes serious and a serious wound is mortal. And some creatures are invulnerable to normal injury and can only be harmed by elemental damage of a particular type."

"Such as trolls, which rapidly heal from any wound not inflicted by fire or acid," Nathyrra added.

"Trolls where I come from heal no faster than other creatures," Elladan said, "although they are, in truth, difficult to injure. I suspect that we use the name for a different breed of creature to the one you describe. I understand the principle, though. What would you suggest? I do not have the knowledge or experience to make an informed choice."

"Fire on one blade, ice on the other," Nathyrra suggested. "That way you will be prepared for most eventualities. My short-sword is enchanted to deliver a shock of lightning to the foe struck, and my rapier bears charms that make it especially destructive to the Undead."

Elladan remembered her slim sword cleaving through the legs of a skeleton warrior during the battle immediately before he had been transported to this Drow city. Now he could understand how it had been far more effective than he would have expected. "You are the expert, and I will defer to your superior knowledge," he said. "Fire and ice it shall be."

"I'll make a start at once," Rizolvir said. "You will need to leave swords and armour with me for a few hours."

"I need to sleep to regain my spells," Prentice said. "We can collect your gear when I awaken."

"It would be best not to be completely unarmed, Elladan, even for so short a time," Nathyrra advised. "We do not expect any attack by the Valsharess yet, not for several days at least, but some of the Drow of House Maeviir are quarrelsome, prone to violence, and resent the presence of the Seer's people in their city. And there is a long history of enmity between the Drow and the Surface Elves. You could be challenged, or even attacked outright, if you appear to be vulnerable."

"I did not hand over all of the weapons I have collected to Rizolvir," Prentice said. "I have a Blade of the Gladiator long-sword still. Take it until your own blades are ready." He focused his gaze on Elladan's hands. "You wear no rings, nor amulets, I see. I can rectify that lack and ensure that you are as well protected as the rest of us."

"I thank you," Elladan said. "I do not know how I will be able to repay you."

"You will repay me the first time some monster seeks to eat my head and you stop it by removing its head from its shoulders," Prentice said. "It's in my own interests to ensure that you are as well equipped as possible. The same applies to you, Nathyrra, and you, Valen. If there is anything you lack please mention it and I will do my best to supply it."

"I think I am well enough supplied," Nathyrra said, "but if I think of anything I'll let you know."

"I have everything I need," Valen said. He was the strange being Elladan had noticed upon his arrival in the Seer's chamber; superficially he resembled an Elf, almost as tall as Elladan and with a similar slim yet powerful build, but his head was crowned by a pair of goat-like horns, a barbed tail hung from his rear, and his ears were longer and more pointed than those of any Elf. He spoke little but watched both Prentice and Elladan with a wary look in his oddly pale eyes. Valen was clearly a warrior, and his armour of green metal scales bore the scars of many battles, but if he remained suspicious of Wizard and Elf that could create discord that would weaken the group by more than his combat skills strengthened it. Perhaps, Elladan thought, he was romantically interested in Nathyrra and regarded the newcomers as rivals.

Elladan put aside thoughts of Valen's unfriendliness, for the moment, and took off his armour and gave it into the care of the smith. In return Rizolvir offered him the loan of a lightweight mail shirt. Elladan accepted with thanks, donned the mail, and took the sword offered him by Prentice and belted it at his hip.

"Have a care with that blade," Prentice warned. "It sweats acid when in contact with flesh."

"For the slaying of… trolls, I take it?" Elladan said, remembering what Nathyrra had said earlier.

"Indeed so," said Prentice. "I have a dagger with the same enchantment, as a weapon of last resort, in case I have no suitable spells to hand. Although if hand-to-hand combat is necessary I'd far rather use my staff. I have little skill at close-quarter fighting and prefer to keep my opponents as far away as possible."

Elladan nodded. Mithrandir could use a sword to considerable effect, he knew, but one could not expect the same from every Wizard. Certainly Prentice, when given room to cast spells without interference, had proved himself to be as formidable an ally as anyone could desire.

He opened his mouth to comment but was pre-empted by a Drow messenger addressing them.

"Surface-dwellers, I bring an invitation from my mistress the Princess Zesyyr of House Maeviir," said the Drow. "She bids you dine with her in the Maeviir Public House."

"Dinner with a Princess?" Prentice raised his eyebrows. "Well, it was my intention to dine before I sought a bed, and I have no objection to dining with a princess. Lead on, then."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

"I must find time to examine the items that we took from the bodies of the fallen Drow," Cierre remarked. "There might well be things there that would be of great use to us."

"Enchanted weapons, you mean?" Gimli said. He broke a meat pasty into two halves, handed one to Cierre, and then took a bite from his piece.

"Thank you, _abbil_," Cierre said. "Yes, enchanted weapons for a start. Those who ambushed us were an elite unit. Almost every weapon taken from a member of such a company will bear charms to make them more deadly in combat. Those dropped by the leader, the _jalil_ who slew Halbarad and carried away Elladan, may well come close to matching my sword Heleg Naur. And there will be more than just weapons. Amulets, rings, bracers, belts, even boots, all may bear useful enchantments." She took a small bite from her pasty and washed it down with a swig of water. "However, to determine what each one does will be the work of some hours. It is not something that can be done during these brief rest halts."

"If I read Aragorn's purpose aright, we shall proceed up the river by ship after defeating our enemy's southern forces," Gimli said. "There will be time then."

Cierre grimaced. "I came to Waterdeep from Neverwinter by ship," she said, "and I was sick for almost the whole of the journey. Sea-sickness, the sailors called it, and my amulet, although it makes me immune to all diseases, was of no help whatsoever. I do not look forward to another journey on water."

"You are unlikely to suffer from that affliction through travelling on the river," Legolas said. "It is, I gather, the motion of the sea's waves that disturbs one's stomach."

"I know nothing of the sea and ships," Cierre said, "but what you say sounds logical. Hopefully, then, we will arrive at Minas Tirith in good shape and be fit for battle as soon as we… disembark? Is that the right word?"

"It is," Legolas confirmed, and repeated the word in Westron. "We have allowed your language lessons to lapse on this journey. That is something else we can resume once we are on the ships."

"What I plan to do," Gimli said, "is to get some sleep. It's alright for you Elves, for you need little, and the Rohirrim seem able to doze as they ride, but I need to lie down to sleep. This long ride, with only brief halts to snatch a bite to eat and to relieve ourselves, is wearying." At that moment Aragorn gave the signal that the halt was ending and, with a sigh, Gimli began to pack away his provisions.

"I am weary too," Cierre said, as she fastened the top of her water flask, "although I am becoming accustomed to riding and no longer am I experiencing discomfort. But, despite the weariness, I am happier now than at any time in my life. I have found good friends, and the Rohirrim have done me honour, and I could never have hoped to serve under a commander as fine as Aragorn. He drives us hard at the moment, it is true, but he has good reason and I do not mind in the least. No-one I knew in my own world can compare. The Weapon Master of my House was fair-minded, and one or two of the instructors at Melee Magthere were decent enough, but most Drow leaders are… downright nasty."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

The young Drow woman was extremely pretty; slim and graceful, delicate of feature, and elegantly clad in a silken gown that reminded Elladan of the styles and fabrics prevalent in King Thranduil's realm. "My name is Zesyyr, only daughter and sole surviving heir to Matron Myrune of House Maeviir," she introduced herself. "I took a risk in inviting you here, for it will draw attention, but time is pressing. I could not wait in the hope that you would come here of your own accord."

Prentice raised an eyebrow. "A risk? How so?"

Zesyyr did not reply directly. "My House has fallen on hard times," she said. "My mother has brought us to the very brink of destruction. Many believe it is a time to change. Many believe I should rule. Of course, my mother is no fool. She understands the danger I represent, which is why she has exiled me from the tower where she dwells. She thinks she is safe inside high walls."

"Obviously she isn't as safe as she thinks," Nathyrra said. "I know this is how we were brought up, but there is another path we can take. One that isn't fraught with betrayal and death. Eilistraee can…"

"Don't throw your goddess in my face!" Zesyyr snapped. "We can't all run away to the surface; some of us have to survive down here in the Underdark. And that means plotting to assure my own future. My mother thinks I am no longer a threat, but I have more support than she knows. All I need to complete my coup are assassins powerful enough to kill her and her bodyguard."

Elladan's jaw dropped. He was too shocked to give voice to any response.

"I'm a wizard, not an assassin," Prentice said.

"So these are the kind of allies we are counting on to stand with us against the Valsharess?" Valen said, contempt evident in his voice.

"I used to be an assassin," Nathyrra said, "but I don't do that sort of thing any longer. Find someone else to do your dirty work."

Elladan found his voice at last. "You want us to kill your own mother?"

"Surely you aren't surprised?" Zesyyr uttered a short, mirthless, laugh. "This is the way of the Drow. The Matron Mothers raise their daughters knowing full well we are scheming to replace them as soon as we come of age."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Nathyrra said, "and to mount a coup at this time will cause conflict that will weaken us when we need everyone to stand together against the Valsharess."

"That is exactly why I intend to act," said Zesyyr. "I know my mother. She doesn't believe we can defeat the Valsharess, and she's afraid. Do you really believe she will fight by the Seer's side when the Valsharess attacks? Matron Myrune will betray your Seer the first chance she gets. I, however, actually believe we can defeat the Valsharess. I won't turn on my allies at the first sign of trouble."

"Why should we believe you when you're turning on your own mother?" Prentice said.

"Walk around Lith My'athar," Zesyyr suggested, "and listen to what my mother's soldiers are saying. They believe our cause is hopeless."

"And you don't?"

"I believe we have a chance," Zesyyr said, "and I am certain that the Valsharess will have me killed on the spot if she takes the city. I believe she will execute my mother, too; what use has the Valsharess for other rulers? But my mother has convinced herself that she'll be allowed to live, in a subordinate position, if she changes sides."

"Then we need to convince her otherwise," Elladan said.

Zesyyr snorted. "Good luck with that. And even if she said that she was convinced, and promised to fight faithfully against the Valsharess, what is to prevent her from changing her mind again? No, it would be far more certain simply to kill her." Her voice softened. "I have no particular desire to see her slain. She has brought me up strictly, but fairly, and I had no thought of challenging her for the rule at this time. In a century or so, perhaps, but not yet. If you could find a solution that does not require her to die I would not be displeased. Unfortunately I doubt very much if any such solution can be found."

It occurred to Elladan that perhaps his presence in this world was not entirely accidental. Was he _meant_ to be here? If Cierre had not been transported to Middle Earth, and Elladan to Faerûn, presumably it would have been the tall Drow girl who stood here beside Prentice. And Cierre, while her combat skills could not be faulted, seemed to have only two ways to solve problems. If they were within arms' reach she hit them with sword or axe; if further away she resorted to arrows. Elladan, however, had learned something of diplomacy from his father. Could he but find a way of resolving the Princess' dilemma without the need for violence then the forces opposed to the Valsharess would be strengthened, or at least not weakened by internal conflict, and their chances of final victory would be improved. First, though, Elladan needed to learn more of this world and its inhabitants.

"I would be willing to try," said Elladan, "but I need to know more of the situation, and of your people, before I can act. Four days ago I had never even heard of the Drow."

"Oh? How strange. I thought all Surface Elves knew of us, and were taught to hate us from an early age," said Zesyyr.

"Elladan isn't from this world," Prentice told her. "For that matter, I do not know all that much about the Drow. Most of what I know comes from my mentor Drogan and, as he was a Dwarf, his views may have been… somewhat one-sided. Mainly I studied the best ways to slay Drow."

"Are you saying that the Dwarves and the Drow are enemies?" Elladan asked. "I had met but one Drow before we were attacked by Khareese's force, Cierre the Ranger, and she was firm friends with Gimli the Dwarf. Indeed never have I seen such friendship between Elf and Dwarf, save perhaps that between Gimli and Legolas of the Wood Elves."

"Cierre of the Silver Marches?" asked Prentice. "Extremely tall for a Drow, armed with a great bow, sword, and hand-axe?"

"Indeed so," Elladan confirmed. "You know her?"

"I met her, briefly, in the Common Room of the Yawning Portal," said Prentice. "She spoke little and, although polite, she did not give the impression that she sought friendship with any. She went ahead of us into Undermountain and left a trail of dead bodies behind her. Then we stopped seeing sign of her and thought that she had perished."

"I heard her name mentioned as I spied upon the forces of the Valsharess," Nathyrra said. "She had slain one of their patrol leaders and taken a valuable sword and a set of enchanted armour. The Valsharess gave orders that she was to die."

"She did not perish, but instead was transported to my world," Elladan said. "And when Khareese followed her there, and sought to slay her and all with her, I was transported here." He turned his attention back to Princess Zesyyr. "It seems she is not typical of your people and what I know of her is not applicable. Your invitation was for us to dine with you. I suggest that we do so and, as we dine, you tell us of the Drow and of the Valsharess."

"I will do so," Zesyyr agreed, "although I am no lore-mistress and my mother would be a better source of information. Or Matron Mother Brizafae of House Deani, who can be found in the Lith My'athar Public House, but she may not be sober enough to talk. Since the Valsharess destroyed House Deani, and Brizafae and her only two surviving followers fled to seek refuge here, she has spent most of her time trying to drink herself into insensibility."

"She doesn't sound congenial company," said Prentice. "I think we'd be better off with you. Nathyrra can contribute too, of course. If we have questions neither of you can answer then we can approach the Matron Mother later – if we can catch her sober."

"Very well, then, I shall order our meals," said Zesyyr. "I cannot offer you a wide variety. Most of our supply routes have been cut off and the menu consists solely of mushrooms and fish. At least there are plenty of both; mushrooms grow anywhere and the city is on the banks of a great river. And there is an adequate supply of mushroom wine."

"I like mushrooms," Elladan said, "but I would not have thought that they were suitable material for the making of wine."

"It is a speciality of our people," Zesyyr said.

"One I would not recommend that you try," Nathyrra advised. "Morimatra wine is not only fiercely alcoholic, it is also hallucinogenic."

"Then I will refrain from partaking of the wine," Elladan said. "I will drink only water. But I would be delighted to accept the fish and mushrooms."

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Éowyn took Merry with her into Fréawulf's tent, for the sake of propriety, but spoke in Rohirric so that the conversation remained private.

"Fréawulf, I hear that you retired to your tent immediately after I spoke to you and have done nothing since other than lying abed," she said. "That is not acceptable. You have duties to carry out and, up until the time of your reprimand, you performed them well. If you are going to abandon them then there is no point in my remaining silent about your… indiscretion. At break of day you will rise, and return to your duties, and do them to the best of your ability. If you obey, and continue to do well, then it will be taken into account when I report to Théoden King and you are judged. If you do not then I will dismiss you at once and appoint another Rider in your stead. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lady Éowyn," Fréawulf replied. He bowed his head. "I will obey."

"Good," said Éowyn. "In that case I shall recommend leniency. Farewell."

She spun on her heel and left the tent with Merry following close behind her. Éowyn believed that the matter was settled, for the time being, and that she would not have to deal further with Fréawulf until the return of Théoden King. But later she would bitterly regret not drawing her sword and striking Fréawulf dead on the spot.


	7. Through the past, and that quite darkly

**Chapter Seven: Through the past, and that quite darkly**

"I hope that the weapons of the Dead will still bite," said Gárod, "for the Corsairs are many and we are few."

Cierre laughed. "No worry," she said. "Shadows touch Men make weak, not fight, we kill them like… white animal, go 'baa', hair make clothes."

"Sheep," Legolas supplied.

"Sheep," Cierre repeated the Westron word. "We kill them like sheep."

Ahead of them a battle was raging. A moderate-sized river, perhaps as wide as the River Rauvin where it ran through Silverymoon, ran through the fields. Armed Men were crossing it on foot and on horseback, indicating that it was fordable at that point, and other armed Men were attempting to prevent them from getting across. The defenders were outnumbered and, despite their advantage of position, were being driven back.

"The Men of Lamedon defend the fords of Linhir," Aragorn explained to Cierre, "and Men of Umbar and Harad seek to force a crossing. We shall sweep away the Umbarim and Haradrim and call upon the Men of Lamedon to follow us to Pelargir."

"Is Lamedon an ally of Gondor?" Cierre asked.

"It is a province of Gondor," said Aragorn, "and doubtless these Men would have gone to aid in the defence of Minas Tirith had it not been for the threat from the Corsairs. If we end that threat we can bring many from the southern provinces flocking to our banner." He drew Andúril and brandished it above his head. "On to the fords!" he shouted.

"_Ultrinnan!_" Cierre answered, brandishing Heleg Naur in like fashion, and the others of the Company voiced their own battle-cries. They spurred their horses to a gallop and the Army of the Dead followed at their heels.

Much to Cierre's disappointment the enemy did not stand to meet their coming. The forces of Harad and Umbar turned and fled, racing away in blind panic, crying out "The King of the Dead is upon us!" Many of the Men of Lamedon did likewise and ran off across the fields.

A mere handful stood firm and awaited the approach of the Grey Company. "Who are you, strangers, who come with such a dread host under your command?" their captain queried. He was a Man tall and strong, grey of beard but still hale, clad in shining mail and a cloak of blue.

"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor," Aragorn answered, "and we ride to the aid of Gondor."

"Chieftain of Arnor… and you command the Host of the Dead," the Gondorian gasped. "Then… you are Isildur's Heir!"

"I am of the line of Isildur," Aragorn confirmed.

"Welcome, Lord Aragorn," the captain replied. "You come at our time of need. I am Angbor, Lord of Lamedon, and I…" His voice trailed away and his gaze became fixed on Cierre. "What is that creature?" he exclaimed. His sword came up into a ready position.

"Call her not 'creature', Lord Angbor," Aragorn said, his tone carrying an unmistakable note of censure. "The Lady Cierre is an Elf, and a friend to Gondor. Your Captain-General Boromir saved her life and, in return, she has pledged her sword to the defence of Minas Tirith."

Angbor lowered his sword. "She fought beside Boromir? Then indeed she must be worthy. I crave your pardon for my hasty words, milady. Elves have not been seen in these lands for many long years and I did not know that any had black skin."

Cierre thought that he was a little naïve to accept Aragorn's word so readily but she wasn't going to object. "I am not offended, my lord," she said, giving Angbor a warm smile. She had to give him credit for bravery, as he had not only held his ground in the face of the Host of the Dead but had inspired his guard to stand with him, and Cierre was all in favour of brave Men as long as they were on her side. And that he spoke Sindarin was another point in his favour. "Only the Elves of my kindred are black. Well met, Lord Angbor. Perhaps we shall fight side by side one day."

"But not yet, for we must press on with all haste," Aragorn put in. "Gather your Men, Lord Angbor, and follow us to Pelargir. We will need your help if we are to save Minas Tirith."

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Matron Mother Myrune shifted her gaze between Elladan and Prentice, staring at them intently, hardly glancing at Nathyrra and Valen. She was silent for a long moment, nipping her lower lip between her teeth, and then she spoke.

"Your proposal is… ingenious," she said. "It would resolve the conflict between myself and my daughter with no need for anyone to die. Yet if the Valsharess destroys us it would all be for naught. You really believe that Lith My'athar can hold? Our few hundred against the armies of six cities?"

"Most of whom, I gather, are unwilling conscripts with no loyalty to the Valsharess," Elladan said.

"And, while Mother Lolth remains silent, we have access to only the most basic of spells and none that can counter the devils summoned by the Valsharess," the Matron Mother went on.

Elladan held himself back from shuddering at the name of the Drow deity. The descriptions of Lolth sounded far too much like Ungoliant for his comfort; he suspected that the two might, in fact, be one and the same. "The Seer's people have no such limitations," he pointed out. "Yes, we can defeat the Valsharess and save this city."

Assuming, of course, that the background information that he had been given was accurate, and that he had accurately predicted the reactions of people he had never met, and that he and his new companions could overcome a series of ferocious monsters…

"Your words are impressive," Myrune said. "If you can fight as well as you can talk then indeed we have a chance. Let us test that." She clicked her fingers and her bodyguard advanced to stand at her side. "Defeat Captain Tebimar in single combat and I will agree to your terms. Fail, and… well, you'll be dead."

Valen pushed back his chair. "I should be the one to face him," he said. "We know nothing of this Elf's abilities."

"Stay out of it, Valen," Nathyrra said. "I've seen Elladan fight. I have no fears for him."

Elladan stood up and moved away into the centre of the room. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked the Drow. "I have no wish to harm you."

Tebimar merely grinned, advanced, and raised his weapon. It wasn't a conventional choice; he was armed with a scythe, a wicked-looking implement with a gleaming blade that indicated that it had been forged for combat rather than as an innocent agricultural tool, and Tebimar held it as if he knew how to use it. Elladan had seen scythes used in battle before, in the hands of peasants impressed into the armies of Carn Dûm, and knew that they could move in ways difficult to predict and that they could inflict terrible wounds. Few fighting men would relish facing an opponent armed with a scythe.

Elladan didn't relish the prospect either but it had to be done, if he was to achieve his objective, and he was willing to risk injury if that was what was necessary. He knew that the design of a scythe was particularly suited to strikes at the lower legs, an awkward target for most other weapons and so often coming as a complete surprise to combatants unused to scythe-wielding foes, but he was well aware of that potential. Without drawing his swords he launched himself into the air, thankful that the Drow went in for high ceilings despite their small stature, and hurled himself at Tebimar. Elladan drew up his legs, saw the scythe blade passing harmlessly under him, and struck Tebimar in the middle of the chest with both knees. The Drow, a foot shorter than Elladan and much lighter, was smashed from his feet and crashed to the ground with Elladan on top of him. Elladan struck two blows with the heel of his hand and Tebimar went limp.

"Impressive," Myrune said. "Very well, I agree. Zesyyr shall have supreme command over all the guards and soldiers of House Maeviir. Only her orders shall be obeyed for a period of three months, or until the Valsharess is utterly defeated, whichever is shorter. And if she perishes the only command I may give the warriors, until the Valsharess is slain, is 'Avenge Zesyyr'. I retain control only of non-military matters. So shall it be."

Prentice handed her a sheet of parchment. "It's all written down here. Sign it, and we're done."

Elladan examined the fallen bodyguard, assessed that he was not badly hurt, and then watched as Myrune signed the agreement. She laid the quill down, looked up, and met his eyes.

"No, we are not yet all done," she said. "You are an impressive physical specimen, male Elf, and if your penis is in proportion to your size then you must be exceedingly well endowed. Come to my bedchamber and fuck me."

Elladan was taken completely aback but managed, with an effort, to keep his astonishment from showing on his face. For a moment he was unable to frame a reply.

"You seem not to understand," Myrune said. "Was your education in our language incomplete?" She formed a circle with the fingers of one hand, poked the index finger of the other through it, and moved her hands back and forth. "I command you to fuck me."

"I understood your meaning," Elladan said. The compulsory language lesson he had received from Halaster had been comprehensive and, even if it had not been, he would have been able to work out the meaning of the Drow word _vith_ from its resemblance to the Sindarin _huitho_. And, when he had heard Cierre utter words in her own tongue beginning with _vith_, it had been obvious that she was swearing. "I must, however, decline your offer. It would not be in accordance with the customs of my people." He was not in the least attracted by the idea of sexual intercourse with the Matron Mother; she was comely enough, he supposed, but her lips seemed more likely to curl into a sneer than a smile, and her eyes were cold.

"Oh?" The sneer duly appeared. "Is it because I am a despised Drow, Elf male?

"I do not despise the Drow," Elladan replied. "Before I came here I had met only one Drow, and I counted her as a friend. It is simply that we have only just met." He groped for a polite term for sexual intercourse but could not think of one; the Drow language, it seemed, scorned euphemisms. "To… fuck… on the basis of such slight acquaintanceship is simply not done." A quick glance at his companions revealed that Valen had raised his eyebrows slightly and Prentice's lips were curved up slightly in what might have been a smile. Nathyrra, however, was aiming a glare at Myrune that seemed intense enough to pierce steel. "I must decline your invitation," Elladan concluded, "and I hope that you are not offended."

"You appear sincere," Myrune said, "and it appears that if I press the matter I will make an enemy of Nathyrra. I am aware of her past background with the Red Sisters and have no desire to antagonise her. Very well, Elf, you are excused." She directed her gaze at Prentice. "You also are tall, human, and a mage might be creative enough to compensate for lack of athleticism. You can take his place in my bed."

Prentice's eyes widened. "You flatter me by your offer, Matron Mother, and I would like to accept. I have heard that the Drow are skilled in the arts of the bedchamber. Alas, I fear that you would be sadly disappointed. My experience in such things is limited to one brief encounter with a barmaid in Hilltop and she appeared to find my performance profoundly unsatisfactory. Also we must leave Lith My'athar in haste if we are to accomplish the mission with which the Seer has charged us."

"In that case I will not bother," said Myrune. "I suppose there is no point in moving on to the Tiefling, although the thought of what he might do with his tail is… intriguing, as the same time constraints would apply. I'll just have to fuck Tebimar when he recovers consciousness."

Elladan felt a pang of sympathy for his defeated foe. It was likely that he would have a headache, and the impact of Elladan's knees against his chest could well have cracked a rib or two; certainly he would be severely bruised. Sex, in that condition, would be far from enjoyable. Perhaps Myrune might cast a healing spell on him first, if she had such a spell available, but Elladan wouldn't count on her bothering to do so. He cast a 'Cure Light Wounds' on the unconscious Tebimar, who stirred slightly but did not wake, to make sure that he did not suffer too badly when dragged off to the Matron Mother's bed.

"We shall leave you to it," Prentice said. "Now we must return the contract to your daughter and then set off on our mission. Farewell."

"You have my permission to depart," the Matron Mother said. Her lips curled slowly into something approximating a smile, conveying the impression that it was not an expression that she used often, and she dipped her head. "If you can confound the Valsharess as you have confounded me perhaps we shall achieve victory after all."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

"_Ultrinnan!_" Cierre yelled. "Look, there are sheep!"

Gárod laughed. "Thousands of them, Cierre, but we shall shear them nonetheless."

In front of them lay a mighty host. Fifty great ships lay at anchor, as well as many smaller vessels, and the united forces of the Haradrim and the Corsairs who were assembled on the bank must have numbered seven thousand or more. Yet they were in disarray, with some mustering for a stand and others trying to push through them to reach the ships, and Gárod was sure that a mere dozen éoreds of Rohan would be able to sweep them away without difficulty. Alas, the éoreds were far away, and the Company numbered only twenty-nine.

Plus the Army of the Dead. "Now come!" Aragorn cried. "By the Black Stone I call you!" The Shadows swept forward like an onrushing tidal bore. And the enemy host turned and fled.

Horses collided and went down. Men stumbled and fell, and were trampled by others rushing heedlessly over them, and some drew weapons and hacked at their own fellows in their desperation to get away. One Captain of Corsairs was slain by his own men as he tried to stem their flight; an Amir of the Haradrim managed, for a brief moment, to rally a few of his horsemen but Legolas put an arrow through his throat from a distance of two hundred and twenty yards. Those remaining joined the flight at once.

"Well shot," Cierre praised. She would have had to dismount to match the feat, at that range, but Legolas had managed it from the back of a running horse. And, for that matter, Cierre had no usable arrows. The flights of hers had been incinerated by a Flame Strike from a Drow priestess, in the Paths of the Dead, and she had not yet had time to fit new fletching to the shafts; nor, distracted as she had been by the deaths of Baldheort and Halbarad and the others, had she thought to scrounge replacements from the Rangers. She had to content herself with brandishing Heleg Naur and hoping that some foeman would flee slowly enough for her to catch.

The chance did not come. The rout continued at undiminished pace even when the fleeing Men reached the edge of the water. Many plunged into the broad river and swam for the ships. Those who could find boats swarmed into them and rowed; fights broke out in some, as too many piled in for the vessels to hold, but as the Dead drew closer the struggling knots of men dissolved and they dived from the boats into the water. The Shadows followed, passing over the surface of the water as easily as they had travelled across the land, and wherever they touched a swimmer that man faltered, struggled briefly, and then sank.

The ships proved to be no refuge. The Dead climbed aboard and the panic-stricken crews abandoned ship en masse. The relentless Dead pursued them.

A short time later the only traces of the host of Corsairs and Haradrim were a few bodies drifting downstream. The majority, weighed down by weapons or armour, had sunk without trace. Seven thousand men had perished within half an hour and Cierre, rather to her disappointment, hadn't killed any of them.

Oh, well, there would be plenty more of the enemy to be found when she reached Minas Tirith.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Elladan parried with one sword and slashed with the other. The creature he faced was terrifying almost beyond imagining; like unto an immense spider, it was, but armed with vicious pincers on its forelimbs and something that looked ominously like a sting at the tail end of its long body. And it did not fight like an animal, going by instinct, but like a trained and experienced fighter. Parrying, striking at weak points, following up advantages and abandoning lines of attack which failed to achieve results. Earlier they had fought huge true spiders, very like those that infested Mirkwood, but this was something very different. A _bebelith_, the others had named it, but they had had no chance to give more information before it had fallen on them in furious attack.

Valen and Nathyrra fought alongside him but they were struggling. Valen swung his flail with undoubted power, though without the precision one would expect in a warrior of his standing, and his blows had no discernible effect. Nathyrra's swords were glancing from the creature's carapace without penetrating and, when she dived away from a lashing pincer, she landed in an ungainly sprawl instead of rolling and coming to her feet in the same motion. And Prentice could do nothing to help and could only stand, staff raised, ready to try to fend off the monster if it turned on him.

There was no magic in this place. No spells could be cast, healing potions had no effect, and enchanted weapons and armour lost the charms placed upon them by wizards. The others, accustomed to their equipment's extra qualities, were thrown off their stride when deprived of them and fought at well below their full potential. Elladan, however, had used his swords in only a handful of brief, although savage, fights since Rizolvir had placed enchantments upon them. The boots he now wore would, according to Prentice, enhance his ability to dodge away from blows but he had not yet had occasion to test this in combat. He fought as he had always done, trusting to nothing but his own skills, and he was holding his own.

Valen… wasn't. The spider-like _bebelith_ lashed out and hooked the long claw of one of its pincers onto the horned warrior's scale armour. That claw ripped, and the shorter claw that formed the other part of the pincer sheared, and the armour split and fell away. Valen was left unprotected and wide open to the creature's next attack.

Nathyrra threw herself forward in a desperate attempt to save him. The _bebelith_ struck with its right pincer, its intention being to remove her head from her shoulders, but she went into a diving roll under the blow, this time performing the move perfectly, and came up to thrust with both swords at its abdomen. The blades glanced off, not even inflicting a scratch, and the _bebelith_ retaliated immediately with its left pincer and caught Nathyrra's right leg between the claws. And began to squeeze.

Elladan felt a stab of sheer terror he had not felt when Valen had been the one in immediate peril. The male warrior was not yet a close comrade, merely someone who fought on the same side; whereas Nathyrra… was more. If she were to lose her leg… it was too terrible to contemplate. But Elladan had already moved into a position where he could take advantage of the monster's concentration on Valen. Now its attention was fully on Nathyrra and Elladan could pick his spot and strike with precision and every ounce of his power.

His target was the point where the arm of the left pincer emerged from the thorax and his aim was true. The armour of a _bebelith_ was iron-hard, invulnerable to most blades without magical enhancement, but the steel forged by Angmir of Imladris was equal to the task. The blade cleaved through the tough plating and severed the limb. It fell away, the claw opened, and Nathyrra was free. Then Elladan brought his other sword up and thrust into the place where the arm had been. He drove it deep, almost to the hilt, and the _bebelith_ uttered a hideous screech and raised itself high on its long legs. The sword came free and a torrent of putrescent ichor poured from the wound.

The creature began to turn, rotating to bring its remaining claw to bear on Elladan, and he took refuge under its abdomen where it could not reach him. Its sting jabbed at him but it could only aim by guesswork and he avoided it with ease. It hesitated, the sting motionless for a brief moment, and he brought one sword up under it and chopped down with the other. Caught between the blades, as if in the jaws of shears, the sting parted from the body and fell to the ground.

"Go for the legs!" Prentice shouted. "If you can take off all the legs on one side it will be helpless!"

A sound idea and one Elladan lost no time putting into practice. He hacked at a leg, aiming at the highest joint, and cut half-way through the limb. At once the _bebelith_ tried to strike back, scuttling away at speed so that Elladan was exposed to its grasp – and Valen, now back on his feet but bleeding from a gouge that ran from his collar-bone almost to his navel, swung his flail to block the reaching claw. Elladan was free to strike at the leg again and this time to cleave through it.

And suddenly they were working as a team. Elladan delivered the damaging blows and Valen shielded him from retaliation. Nathyrra, limping and with blood soaking the leg of her pants, began thrusting at the holes left by the severed limbs. Her rapier, ineffective against the armoured carapace, was able to penetrate the gaps and inflict damage on the vulnerable flesh within. Prentice moved in and used the reach of his staff to fend off the monster's strikes at Nathyrra. And the _bebelith_ collapsed, writhing impotently, able only to drag itself awkwardly across the cave floor and to reach out with its remaining claw in futile attempts to strike its mobile opponents.

Once it was down Valen had no further need to defend Elladan. He began to rain down blows upon the _bebelith_, battering against its head and thorax, and at last his flail took effect. Pinned against the stone floor, unable to give before the impacts, the carapace began to crack. Nathyrra turned her attention to the eyes. The final moments were nothing more than butchery. At last the _bebelith_, dismembered and pierced by a score of wounds, lay inert.

Valen picked up the pieces of his armour. "This served me well through long years of war," he said, "and bore mighty enchantments. It will be hard to replace."

"Perhaps Rizolvir will be able to repair it," Elladan suggested.

"Perhaps so," Valen agreed. "He is a skilled craftsman, more so than any I have encountered elsewhere, and yet even his steel might not have been capable of cleaving through the armour of a _bebelith_ when stripped of magical enhancements. The smith who forged your swords must be a master indeed. And you wield them with the skill of a true warrior."

"I told you so," Nathyrra said.

"And I told you that you leave your right leg too exposed when you strike," Valen replied.

"I am working to correct that flaw," Nathyrra said, "but your imminent demise drove it out of my mind."

Valen dipped his head. "Your effort was valiant," he acknowledged, "and I thank you. And both of us should thank Elladan, for it was through his efforts that we prevailed."

"We fought as a team," Elladan stated, "and I trust that we shall continue to do so. Now I had better attend to your injuries."

"In this dead magic zone our potions might as well be water," Nathyrra said, "and your curative spells will fail."

"Then it is just as well that I learned the healing arts in a world in which such spells and potions are unknown," Elladan said. "I cannot restore you in an instant, as a spell would do, but I can staunch the flow of blood and stop the wounds from getting any worse. That is as much as I can do, in a dimly-lit and spider-infested cave, but it will have to suffice."

He applied salves and bound the wounds. When dealing with the gash on Nathyrra's smooth-skinned and lithely muscled leg he experienced some difficulty in maintaining the proper detachment from his subject. He was aroused enough to feel discomfort in some areas of his… armour; in fact his arousal was greater than he had experienced in the past when starlight bathing, in the nude, in the company of willing _ellith_ considerably more beautiful than Nathyrra. These feelings were inappropriate for the occasion and he suppressed them, by an effort of will, although he suspected that Nathyrra had sensed them despite his efforts. This was not the time, nor the place, to raise the subject and he forced the thoughts from his mind and concentrated upon tending the injuries.

"I wonder," Prentice mused. "The inscription upon the ancient mechanism that we passed spoke of healing. It could well be that it is a device for casting healing spells."

"Even if that is the case it will be useless in a zone of no magic," Nathyrra reminded him. She flexed her bandaged leg, testing its mobility, and ran through a practice lunge and withdrawal. "Let us press on."

"I hear running water ahead," Elladan said. "Even if what we seek is not there at least we will be able to wash the filth from our weapons."

They passed through an archway, beyond the chamber in which they had fought the _bebelith_, and found an underground stream running along the side of a paved area. In the centre of the paved section stood an obelisk.

"That is, indeed, the source of the dead magic zone," Prentice declared.

"Taking it with us will not be easy," Nathyrra said. "It must be fifteen feet high and made of stone."

Prentice walked closer and examined the obelisk. "There is a compartment within it fastened with a puzzle lock," he said, "and the compartment is not large. Our task will be easier than you fear."

"Can you open the lock?" Elladan asked.

Prentice smiled. "My master Drogan set a puzzle for me to solve at least once every day for seven years," he said. "I do not anticipate any great difficulty. Hmm. Four lines of four letters in an archaic version of the Thorass runic alphabet." They bore a marked resemblance to the _Angerthas Daeron_, Elladan noted; yet another indication that there had been significant contact between Arda and Faerûn at some time in the forgotten past.

"If it's a word puzzle I will be at a disadvantage without access to a Read Languages spell," Prentice went on. "Ah, they change when depressed – except for the one in each line closest to the obelisk. In that case the number of possible words would be limited. North, South, East, and West, perhaps? No, I doubt if there are any languages in which those four words are all made up of the same four letters. Hmm."

Prentice took a step back and stood, stroking his less than impressive beard, and staring at the symbols. Elladan did not expect anything to happen soon and so went to the nearby stream and began to clean the ichor from his blades; Nathyrra and Valen followed his example.

"Ah, perhaps it is the simplest solution," Prentice said. "Let me see…" He moved around the obelisk, depressing the plaques which bore the letters, until each line was made up of four repetitions of a single symbol. A 'click' sounded and a door slid open. "And indeed it was that simple," Prentice said. He bent down and peered into the chamber. "Nathyrra," he said, "would you be so good as to check for traps?"

"There is no need to be so excessively polite, wizard," Nathyrra said. She examined her blades, decided that they were clean enough, and sheathed them. "Such tasks are my responsibility and you may phrase your instructions as orders without fear of offending me." She joined Prentice at the obelisk and made a thorough examination of the compartment. "There are no non-magical traps present," she declared, "and in this environment there is no possibility of Explosive Runes or Glyphs of Warding. You may proceed safely."

"Thank you," Prentice said. He reached into the compartment and removed a glowing spherical object. As soon as it was clear of the obelisk the glow went out.

Elladan saw steam rising from one of his sword blades and the other one, in the water, began to grow heavier. He snatched it out and saw that a thick coating of ice had formed on the steel. He gave the sword a hard flick and the ice slid from the blade and splashed into the water.

"The magic is back," said Prentice. "Useful for the moment, as we can heal up our injuries and open up the Bag of Holding to get replacement armour for Valen, but it might mean that the anti-magic zone is not portable. If this globe only works when it's installed in the obelisk then we will have to fight the Beholders in their full magical might. Fearful odds indeed. I have been turned to stone before and it is not an experience I remember with fondness."

"Turned to… stone?" Elladan echoed.

"It's a long story, and this is no time to relate it," Prentice said. He turned the globe over and scrutinised the base.

"There is a book about his adventures," Nathyrra said. "The Seer has a copy."

Prentice groaned. "A book full of wild exaggerations," he said, "and I would much prefer you not to read it… aha!" He tensed and bent his head close to the globe. "I see now. The obelisk serves as an amplifier, and recharger, but the globe will function alone. I can activate it and produce a dead magic zone for a few minutes. Long enough for us to kill the Beholders while they are powerless."

They had encountered only two of the strange monsters on their way into the caverns, before learning of this 'dead magic' and diverting from their course to seek out the source, but that experience had been enough to fill Elladan with both loathing for the creatures and a healthy respect for them as opponents. Sauron, in Elladan's opinion, would have delighted in the malevolent Beholders with their multitude of small eyes on stalks and their massive central eye like a living expression of the Enemy's own symbol. Killing them while they couldn't fight back seemed to Elladan merely eminently sensible and not in the least dishonourable.

"And after that we will have to deal with the emissaries from the Valsharess," Nathyrra said. "Unfortunately using the anti-magic globe against them would weaken us by as much as it would weaken them. It will be a tough fight unless we can catch them asleep – and I, in their place, would not sleep in the lair of the Beholders without a strong guard on watch."

Elladan couldn't help feeling relieved that Nathyrra did not expect them to catch the Drow emissaries unawares. Killing monsters while they were helpless was one thing; slitting the throats of sleeping Elves, no matter how evil the mistress they served, was quite another. And the information he had gathered about the Drow culture, while it had horrified and disgusted him, had also made him feel acute sympathy for a people who had suffered terribly. But he knew that a party sent as emissaries of the Valsharess to recruit monsters to her cause would not be hapless conscripts; these would be her loyal followers, dedicated and ruthless, and it would be as pointless trying to sway them from their loyalty with words as it would have been to try to negotiate with Khareese. All he could aim to do would be to kill them as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Cierre trimmed goose feathers to shape and glued them to the shafts. She was not used to seeing geese this early in the year – this month that they called 'March' here would be the equivalent of Ches, as far as she could work out – but Pelargir was much farther south than the lands she frequented in Faerûn. It had worked out very conveniently; the geese had provided her with fine quality feathers and, roasted, had provided the Grey Company with a tasty meal. It would have been better if the geese could have hung for a while, of course, but that was impractical. And she'd even managed to find some mushrooms.

She had identified the items retrieved from the bodies of the Drow ambushers. Identification wasn't one of her primary skills but she had found a Ring of Insight and some Potions of Lore on the body of one of the mages. Using those she'd managed to classify almost everything. And she had made sure that the best items went to Aragorn; not that she had had to overcome any objections, as everyone in the Company agreed with her that Aragorn's welfare was paramount. She had not neglected to see to her own interests, of course; she had acquired a set of twice-enchanted Bracers of Dexterity, enabling her to pass on her Bracers of Archery to Legolas (who would now be even more of a marvel with a bow), upgraded her Ring of Protection, and kept the Ring of Insight for future use in non-combat situations.

In fact she was wearing the Ring of Insight as she worked, in place of her Ring of Protection, because it had occurred to her that something that enhanced her memory and her powers of deductive reasoning might help her to learn the Westron language. However all the members of the Company who didn't speak Sindarin were currently asleep and only Elrohir, and an untypically gloomy and silent Legolas, were in her vicinity. She kept the ring on, nonetheless, and continued with her task.

"There are large stocks of arrows on the ships," Elrohir said, "and, although most of them are the slightly shorter arrows favoured by the Haradrim, some hundreds are long enough for your bow and that of Legolas. I am surprised that you are bothering to re-fletch those shafts."

"I learned at Helm's Deep that you can never have too many arrows," Cierre replied, "and I like having arrows that I have fletched with my own hands. And it gives me something to do. I have no administrative skills, and I know nothing about ships, and I have slept as much as I need."

"I had hoped to talk with you," Elrohir said.

"I can talk while I work," Cierre said, hoping that she did not sound too eager. "What do you wish to talk about?"

"I am wondering about your people," Elrohir said. "What will Elladan find now that he is trapped amongst them? Saruman said that they are evil, and Gimli said that you had told him this already, but what is the truth?"

Cierre sighed. She had hoped that the handsome Elf had something more romantic in mind. Still, she would rather talk to him than not talk to him, even if the subject was not one she would have chosen. Briefly she considered giving an account that would paint the Drow in a more flattering light than they deserved but decided against it. She knew she was not a good liar and she would be bound to trip herself up. No, she would tell the plain truth.

"Not all of the Drow are evil," she said, "but most are. Three quarters of the females, and half of the males, worship Lolth the Queen of Spiders. She commands her followers to be merciless, selfish, and cruel. The rest of the males mainly follow Vhaeraun, who teaches that males have as much right to rule as females, and that the Surface Elves should not be our enemies. But he is also merciless to those who oppose him, and is an enemy to Dwarves, and many of his people try to conquer the Surface Elves anyway and he does nothing to restrain them. A few males, and many of the females who do not worship Lolth, are worshippers of Kiaransalee the goddess of the Undead. It was a priestess of Kiaransalee who was with the party that attacked us on the Paths of the Dead – in her company they would have had no fear of any shades. The remaining females worship Eilistraee, Lady Silverhair, the Dark Maiden. She is a good and kind goddess who teaches mercy, forgiveness, and dancing beneath the light of the moon. But her followers are very much in the minority."

"And you?" asked Elrohir.

"I rejected the gods of the Drow when I left to live on the surface," Cierre said. "I despise Lolth and do not trust the followers of Vhaeraun. Eilistraee… I considered her, in her capacity of goddess of sword-fighting, but in the end I chose Auril the Frostmaiden. As far as I know I am her only Drow worshipper."

"So you are not representative of your people?"

"Very much not so," Cierre confirmed.

Elrohir nodded and then returned to his original line of questioning. "Why is it that the Drow follow such ignoble members of your world's Valar? Surely it cannot be natural for Elves, in any world, to be inclined toward Evil."

"We were not always so," Cierre said. "It is a long story."

"And it will be three or four hours before Gimli and the Men awake," Elrohir said. "There is time for a long tale."

"I shall have to abbreviate it nonetheless," Cierre said, "for it begins fourteen thousand years ago. In those days we were not known as the Drow, our skin was dark brown rather than black, and our hair was black and not white. We had two realms; Ilythiir, a southern land of hot plains and lush jungle, and Miyeritar, the Sapphire Wood, a northern forest realm that we shared with the Wood Elves. The Ilythiiri were proud and stern, and those who crossed them soon regretted it, but they were not aggressors. The Miyeritari were peaceful folk who devoted themselves to the arts. Until the Sun Elves of Aryvandaar invaded."

"Sun Elves?" Elrohir queried.

"The Ar-tel-quessir, also known as High Elves," Cierre said. "The tallest and fairest of the Elves of Faerûn, and the noblest and the wisest – at least in their own minds." Her lips curled back in a snarl. "But, as Théoden King said to Saruman, were they ten times as wise they would have no right to rule me and mine for their own profit as they desired."

"They sought to conquer your people?" It was hard for Cierre to read Elrohir's expressions, for he seemed to pride himself on avoiding displays of emotion, but his eyebrows climbed high and she interpreted that, and his tone of voice, as showing strong disapproval of the actions of those Faerûnian Elves.

"They did conquer Miyeritar," Cierre said. "The armies were crushed and scattered, the lands occupied, and the people subjugated, and only a few bands of rebels escaped to continue to resist. The Ilythiiri were desperate to help their kinfolk but their realm was far away and the Moon Elf realm of Orishaar lay in between. Ilythiir demanded that Orishaar should cease trading with Aryvandaar and allow the Ilythiiri armies free passage through their lands. Orishaar refused. And so the armies of Ilythiir entered Orishaar anyway. The Moon Elves fought back and the Ilythiiri, needing to secure their lines of communication, crushed Orishaar as ruthlessly as the Sun Elves had crushed Miyeritar. And other Elven nations came to Orishaar's aid."

Tears began to trickle down Cierre's cheeks. "I could never understand why," she said. "None sought to help us, except the Ilythiiri, but the Elves flocked to assist Orishaar. And the Ilythiiri became bogged down in a war on a dozen fronts, unable to reach us, as we suffered under the Sun Elves."

"You say 'we' and 'us'," Elrohir observed. "You are of the Miyeritari, then?"

Cierre shook her head. "I believe so," she said, "but I have no way of knowing. It is said that the Miyeritari were taller than the Ilythiiri, and I am the tallest of all the Drow save for Qilué Veladorn, and my grandmother was almost as tall as I am. Also I like the cold, and when I saw snow and ice for the first time it felt as if I was coming home, and I am less affected by daylight than are most Drow. None of that is solid evidence, however, and there is no way to be sure. Miyeritar no longer exists. When Ilythiir finally broke through and reached the borders of Miyeritar the Ar-tel-quessir unleashed the Dark Disaster upon Miyeritar."

Cierre gazed into space, the arrows forgotten, the tears now running down her cheeks in rivulets. "Half a million died as the killing storms raged. The land was scoured bare and even now, twelve thousand years later, it is still a wasteland. The survivors fled and made their way to join the Ilythiiri… who went berserk. From then on they showed no restraint, no mercy. They put forests to the torch, executed prisoners, massacred innocents – just as the Ar-tel-quessir had done to us. And they launched attacks on all who had not helped the Miyeritari. There could be no neutrals. The Wood Elves stood with us, and Illefarn was spared because they had given shelter to refugees from Miyeritar, but the wrath of Ilythiir fell upon all others. Their fury knew no bounds, and their might was great, but their enemies were legion. Therefore the high commanders of the Ilythiiri deserted Eilistraee, and Vhaeraun, and prayed to Lolth for aid. And she sent to them Wendonai, the Balor, and he warred upon the Elves at their side."

Elrohir shuddered visibly as she said 'Balor'. "This… Wendonai," he probed. "A figure of smoke and fire, shaped like a winged Elf or Man, armed with a whip of many thongs or a flaming sword?"

"You have described him precisely," Cierre confirmed.

"A Balrog," Elrohir said. He shook his head. "An evil spirit of fire, most fell of Elf-banes save for Sauron, an adversary foul and terrible. Your people fought alongside such an abomination?"

Cierre lifted her head and glared at Elrohir. "They were desperate," she snapped. "Yes, it was foolish, and it damned them in the end – but they turned to Evil only because Good had stood by and watched as we were slaughtered. Do not condemn them."

"I spoke not in condemnation, but out of surprise," Elrohir said. "I understand the extremes of action that can come from desperation." He sighed audibly. "My father was, for a time, brought up in the household of Maedhros and Maglor, two of the Sons of Fëanor, who were noble and great in many ways. Yet they had sworn an oath, and were bound by it, and as a result they committed terrible atrocities. And they had less excuse than your people, for they were avenging a theft, whereas the Ilythiiri were avenging conquest and massacre. Oh, yes, I understand and sympathise indeed."

"What did these… Sons of Fëanor… do?" Cierre asked.

"I will tell you at another time," Elrohir said. "Go on with your tale."

"The rest is slaughter," Cierre said. "Massacre upon massacre, as the war continued for another one and a half thousand years. In the battle of The Gods' Theatre a full seventy thousand Elves perished – and that was but one battle out of hundreds. The armies of Aryvandaar set upon the Moon Elf nations that had been weakened by their struggles against Ilythiir and sought to swallow them up. New wars erupted as Elf fought Elf across the continent. And still, despite the evil of Aryvandaar becoming more and more obvious, the Ilythiiri were regarded as the greater foe and a conclave of Elven mages and priests assembled and wrought magical doom upon my people. We were cursed and condemned to the Descent."

"Cursed?"

"Our skin and our hair transformed to be as you see me now," Cierre explained. "Our eyes became overly sensitive to the light of day and prolonged exposure to sunlight weakens us and burns our skin. We endured for a little while but then fled into the deep places of the world. And thus began our conflict with the Dwarves, with whom we had thus far coexisted in relative peace, for the prime dwelling places in the Night Below belonged to them and we sought to dispossess them by force. Long and bitter have been our wars with the _Harglukkin_."

"If that is so I wonder at your great friendship with Gimli," Elrohir remarked.

"Why should I resent the Dwarves?" Cierre responded. "In our wars with the _Darthien_ we were the wronged party, at least to begin with, but the Dwarves did us no wrong until we attacked them. Gimli welcomed me from the beginning and has ever shown me trust and comradeship the like of which I have never before known. He is my _aluri abbil_."

"Indeed Gimli is a redoubtable warrior and a staunch comrade, a worthy son of his renowned father Glóin," Elrohir agreed. "My father's choice of Gimli to be a member of the Fellowship could not have been bettered."

"No, not even Bruenor Battlehammer of my world is a match for Gimli," Cierre said. A broad grin transformed her still tear-stained face. "I have been accused of trying to emulate Drizzt but managing to be only a poor copy," she said, "but my Dwarf comrade is better than his Dwarf comrade. Hah! Take that, Do'Urden!" The grin vanished as suddenly as it had appeared and was replaced by a pensive frown. "The Fellowship," she mused. "I wonder how the other members are faring. Drizzt's Halfling friend Regis could creep into just about anywhere, and steal just about anything, but I never met Frodo and Sam and cannot judge their abilities. Nor do I know the details of their task."

This was dangerous ground. Elrohir was certain that Cierre could be trusted but if Aragorn had not told her about the true mission of the Ringbearer then Elrohir was not going to be the one to do so. And what one did not know one could not be forced to reveal in the torture chambers of the Enemy. He had to divert her from that topic and so went back to the original subject of their conversation.

"Did the wars end when your people were cursed?" he asked.

Cierre uttered a short, mirthless, laugh. "End? Oh, no. With the Ilythiiri and the Miyeritari gone the Sun Elves turned their full might upon the remaining Moon Elf and Wood Elf kingdoms. They absorbed their conquests into their new Vyshaantar Empire and sought to crush all resistance totally. They fought with renewed fury, and a fanatical determination, for they had a terrible secret to protect. The Ilythiiri were not the only ones who had sought aid from the powers of Evil. In the court of the Vyshaan Emperor lurked Malkizid, the Fallen Solar, and it was his corrupt advice and dark magics that had enabled the Ar-tel-quessir to prevail in their wars of conquest and to destroy Miyeritar in the Dark Disaster."

"Fallen Solar?" Elrohir queried. The term sounded ominously reminiscent of a certain being of Middle Earth…

"Solars are the greatest servants of the good gods," Cierre explained, "powerful beyond measure but normally benevolent. Malkizid served the Elven gods but betrayed them. He was cast out of Arvandor and sought to subvert the Elves and to destroy the Ilythiiri. He nearly succeeded."

Elrohir hissed and his lips curled back from his teeth. His suspicions were confirmed. This 'Malkizid' was exactly the same type of being as Sauron, and had served the Elves of Cierre's world as Sauron had served Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor – with consequences perhaps even more ruinous.

"But now the Sun Elves had overreached themselves," Cierre continued. "They were fighting _everyone_. So many of their soldiers were tied down occupying the conquered lands that they could not match their opponents in the field. The remaining Elven kingdoms began to roll them back, and the subjugated populations rose in revolt, and the Ilythiiri – now renamed the Drow – launched raids from their new underground homeland. The Vyshaantar Empire collapsed – and Malkizid deserted them and fled. But too late for us."

"I take it that the curse remained in effect?"

"Indeed so," Cierre confirmed. "As the Drow we founded new cities in the Underdark, and ruled there, and on occasion sent up parties to the surface to attack the Elves. Eventually we forgot that the Wood Elves had been our friends and allies, and attacked them too, and became enemies to all. Only the followers of Eilistraee lived on the surface without warring upon Elves and Men. More recently a few renegades have taken to life on the surface; myself, and Drizzt Do'Urden, and Liriel Baenre, and Viconia De'Vir. But only Drizzt has gained the trust of the surfacers and really won a place for himself."

"You say that your people have forgotten that the Wood Elves were their friends," Legolas spoke up, startling Cierre; Legolas had been sitting staring out over the river and she had not realised that he was listening. "How is it that you remember? Forgive me for saying so, Cierre, but you do not have the air of a loremistress or a scholar."

Cierre gave him a broad grin. "Quite the opposite," she said. "In fact that is the very reason why I found out our true history. I was failing in my studies at Arach-Tinilith. I could manage only the simplest of curative spells, and the spells which cause harm and those that bring the blessings of Lolth upon the caster were quite beyond my abilities, and the theology in our lessons baffled me. I feared that I would fail my tests, and bring shame upon my House, and I turned to dishonourable means. One thing I excelled in was stealth and I sneaked into a part of the college that was forbidden to students. I thought I might find the answers to test papers so that I could pass my examinations by cheating. Instead I found the Secret Histories."

"_Secret_ Histories?" Elrohir queried.

"The true history of my people is restricted knowledge," Cierre explained. "We are taught that we have always been Evil, and that we should glory in it, and that the _Darthien_ are inferior and are jealous of our greater prowess. To learn that we once had been defeated by them would be a blow to our pride. I found that out when I quoted from the Secret Histories in an essay and was rewarded by being accused of heresy and ignominiously expelled from Arach-Tinilith. A disgrace that proved to be a blessing in disguise, for my uncle was the First Sword of Melee-Magthere, and he arranged for me to be admitted into the Fighters' College despite me being a female. There I learned that I was good at something else besides stealth. After I had been there four years not one of the other students could stand against me. By the time I left I could defeat even my uncle in three bouts out of five."

"And your skills have served us well indeed," Legolas said. "I owe you an apology, Cierre, for I have misjudged you. I saw your ferocity in battle and I regarded it as excessive, as if you gloried in the slaughter, and you seemed to delight in inflicting pain. Yet later I saw you weep over Baldheort, and I saw your anguish when Gimli was poisoned, and I recognised that you were not, in truth, a heartless killer. Now that I have heard your tale I regret my harsh judgement even more. Forgive me."

"I had not even realised that you felt that way," Cierre said. "You Elves of Middle Earth hide your emotions so that it is hard to read you. I will not deny that I am hurt… but I forgive you, Legolas. Perhaps I should have told you what I was doing. I sought to break the will of the Dunlendings through terror and in pursuit of that aim I fought to maim as much as to kill."

"War of the Heart, we call it," said Elrohir. "You of Mirkwood have forgotten the art, Legolas, for you fight Orcs with no imagination and spiders that are only marginally sentient. My brother and I, however, have used it many times against the Men of Angmar. It can be very effective, especially against unwilling levies, and had I been at Helm's Deep I would have fought the same way as did Cierre. Probably with less success, I suspect, for I believe her… unfamiliar… appearance magnified the impact of her actions on the morale of the Dunlendings."

"It was effective indeed," Legolas agreed, "and I should not have held Cierre's actions against her when they were justified by our dire situation."

"I said I forgive you," Cierre said. "You don't need to go on about it. I'll get back to my fletching." She looked down at her work and her face fell. "Oh, _vith!_" she swore. "My glue has set!"

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Nathyrra hissed a warning and raised her crossbow.

"Light!" said Prentice. A glow emanated from his staff and illuminated the shadows ahead.

A figure stood there, motionless, not reacting to the sudden light. It was a male Drow, taller than Nathyrra but still a good five inches shorter than Cierre, clad in armour of dark red leather trimmed in black. There was something odd about his right leg and he wore a black domino mask. He stood with his arms folded; in his right hand he held a short sword, with an unusual forward-curving blade somewhat resembling that of an amputation knife, but it was not poised ready to strike.

"A Vhaeraun worshipper!" Nathyrra said, almost in a snarl, and took aim.

"Stop!" Elladan commanded. "He is here at my invitation."

"What?" Nathyrra's mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. "How? Why?" She obeyed, however, and lowered her crossbow.

"The how was easy," Elladan said. "I spoke to… someone… before we left Lith My'athar and arranged to have a message sent. As to why, I would have thought that was obvious."

"You are a stranger here and do not know the way of things," Nathyrra said, "and therefore I forgive you. But this is rank stupidity. The followers of the Sly Savage are treacherous and vile."

"I have met but one," said Elladan, "and I found him to be honest and worthy of respect. I will judge this Drow as I find him and not by reputation."

"The only male you have met, and to whom you could have spoken without me witnessing the conversation, is Rizolvir," Nathyrra deduced. She pursed her lips and tilted her head to one side. "Well, even if he is a spy for the Vhaeraun worshippers, Lith My'athar could not afford to do without him," she decided, "and indeed I have always found him to be an honest and meticulous craftsman if, perhaps, a trifle avaricious. Very well, then, speak to this male – if Prentice approves, that is, for the Seer has deemed him to be our leader."

"Elladan came up with an ingenious solution to the problems of House Maeviir," Prentice said. "I trust his judgement and, when he suggested this, I approved his plan. We did not expect such a quick response or we would have warned you earlier. Let him do the talking."

Elladan kept his hands well clear of his weapons as he approached the Drow. "Greetings," he said. "I am Elladan Elrondion. You are the representative of the worshippers of Vhaeraun?"

"I am Jezz, known as the Lame, speaker for House Jaelre," the Drow answered. "I am told you have a proposition for me. Speak."

Elladan observed that the Drow's right leg bore a metal brace at the knee and his boot was built up at the sole. Some dreadful injury had left the leg twisted and permanently shortened. It seemed odd to Elladan that such a crippling disability should exist when healing magic was so prevalent; then he remembered Cierre, when she was instructing the Rangers in the use of Cure spells, cautioning them to be sure to position displaced bones correctly before casting spells on broken limbs. Elladan would have done so as a matter of course but perhaps whatever spellcaster had healed Jezz had neglected to do so. Or he had been injured in a situation where no spells or potions were available and the leg had healed, naturally, with the bones out of place. It was a severe handicap but it was obvious that Jezz had overcome it and was, no doubt, a formidable warrior. Not someone to be taken lightly.

"I want your people to come to the aid of Lith My'athar," Elladan said, coming straight to the point. "The Valsharess is a threat to you too. And, because she conscripts the survivors of each conquest into her army, she grows stronger with each victory. She needs to be stopped now before she grows too strong for anyone to oppose."

"We live in the Night Above," Jezz replied. "She poses little threat to us."

"I am told there is a city in the Underdark, Rilauven, which is ruled by the worshippers of Vhaeraun," Elladan countered. "She has not attacked it yet but its turn will come. Perhaps immediately after Lith My'athar."

"It is more likely that she will move next against the Promenade of Eilistraee," Jezz said, "and Rilauven is much stronger than either Eilistraeean stronghold. It would be a better place to make a stand. What makes you think you can hold Lith My'athar even with our aid?"

"If we can inflict a reverse upon her I believe we can cause her conscripts to revolt," Elladan said, "and Lith My'athar's very weakness provides an opening for that reverse. It appears that the Valsharess is not committing her full strength here and has approached the local… monsters… to bolster her forces. I intend to frustrate that plan. Already we have destroyed the Beholders."

Jezz's eyebrows rose. "Formidable adversaries, in truth, and that was a deed well done. You have won a mark in your favour, Elf, and perhaps your scheme has merit. But we are mercenaries. You must offer us some incentive before you can recruit our aid. The inhabitants of Lith My'athar may term it a city but in reality it is a town, and not a large one at that, and I doubt if it has much in the way of wealth."

"True," said Elladan, "but many of the worshippers of Eilistraee there are beautiful women who wear very little in the way of clothing. And surely they would feel… well disposed… toward unexpected allies and rescuers."

A fractional hint of a smile showed on Jezz's lips. "Perhaps so," he said. "Indeed a reward that some of my people would prize above gold." The smile flickered and was gone. "Answer me this, Elf. The Surface Elves have hated us of the Drow for millennia. Yet you are aiding those of Lith My'athar. True, it now houses many followers of Eilistraee, who some among you Surface Dwellers exempt from your loathing of the rest of us, but my… agent… informs me that you gave wise counsel to the Lolthites and showed them courtesy and respect. You have met me with fair words and I see no hint in your eyes that you dissemble. How is it that you appear to be free of the prejudices of your race?"

"I am from another world," Elladan explained, "and I was brought here by a magical accident. The Elves of my world had never heard of the Drow until one was transported there recently by a similar accident. I have found her to be a redoubtable warrior and a true comrade. The next Drow I met attacked us from ambush, and slew a good friend, but she was a captain in the service of the Valsharess. I will not judge your people by her but will take you as I find you."

"I am a thief and a killer," Jezz stated bluntly.

"Perhaps so," said Elladan, "but you could be something more."

Jezz looked at him for a long moment, his face inscrutable, and then the lame Drow broke into a smile. "By Vhaeraun, I think I like you, Surface Elf," he said. "And those are words I never thought that I would utter. I will aid Lith My'athar. But do not expect too much; the main strength of House Jaelre is many leagues away and magically transporting large numbers is not feasible. There are other Vhaeraunite groups relatively near at hand but they owe me no allegiance. I will ask for volunteers but I cannot issue commands."

"Be sure to mention the naked girls," Elladan advised.

Jezz laughed aloud. "I do like you, Elf. Very well. I shall see what I can do. But I make no firm promise. I will not come if a mere handful is all I can raise. I will not throw my life away."

"Dying in a good cause is not throwing away your life," Elladan said, "but it is your decision. I shall hope to see you at Lith My'athar when the time comes."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Aragorn pricked the blisters on Cierre's hands and gently squeezed out the liquid. "I have salve that could heal these without need of a spell," he said, "but you might as well use a Cure spell anyway. It will rid you of the pain in your back as well and there will be plenty of time to regain the spell before we engage in battle once more."

"As you advise, _Jabbuk_," Cierre said, and cast the spell.

"You are not to take another turn at rowing," Aragorn told her. "We have more than enough Men available to fill all the berths at the oars and it is much more important that you are at peak fighting efficiency when we arrive at the Harlond."

"But I am strong, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn, and many of the rowers have been prisoners forced to row for the enemy," Cierre protested. "It is not fair that I should do naught but rest as they row us up the river. I wish to contribute."

"Strong indeed, but you are not accustomed to this form of labour," Aragorn pointed out. "You harm yourself without need." He gave her a sharp look. "I suspect that you worry lest the oarsmen resent you if you do not row with them. I assure you there is no need for such fears. You will note that none of the rest of the Grey Company are sharing in the rowing and no-one will think less of them for it. They are saving themselves for the fight, as should you."

"I am not good at doing nothing," Cierre said.

"Then return to your lessons in Westron," Elrohir suggested. "Legolas does not seem to be in any mood to tutor you, alas, but I could take his place."

"That is an excellent idea," Aragorn said.

"Indeed so, _Jabbuk_," Cierre agreed, "and I shall do as he suggests." Aragorn nodded and moved on to attend to someone else. "I thank you, Elrohir," Cierre said. "What ails Legolas?"

"The Sea Longing," Elrohir answered.

Cierre turned a look of blank incomprehension on him. "Sea Longing? Why would he long for the sea? He is a Wood Elf, not a Sea Elf. And the sea is _horrible_. It made me vomit and feel dizzy for the whole four days of the journey from Neverwinter to Waterdeep. Luckily this river does not have the same motion and I can tolerate it."

"Not for the sea itself, but for the Undying Lands beyond," Elrohir explained. "The island of the Valar, where all Elves go when their mortal bodies perish in Arda, and to which many of us have been travelling by sea as Middle Earth grows darker and the Age of Men approaches."

"You can go to your equivalent of Arvandor by sea?" Cierre's eyebrows climbed. "How strange. We have to die to get there… well, not me personally, as a worshipper of Auril I will go to Fury's Heart, and the other Drow will go to the realms of their deities in the Abyss. They don't let us into Arvandor. I mean the Surface Elves of Faerûn."

"We can sail there, indeed," Elrohir confirmed, "and many are doing so, or plan to do so in the future. The Sea Longing can be awakened by the sight of the sea or, as I think is the case with Legolas, by the cry of gulls. In time all the Elves will have left Middle Earth."

Cierre shook her head. "Weird," she said. "We seek to put off such a journey for as long as possible. Even those Surface Elves who made the Retreat to Evermeet have been returning to Faerûn of late." She was not perceptive enough to realise that Evermeet had been created in imitation of Valinor, in the days when some Elves of Faerûn still remembered tales of their origins in Arda, and that the returnees had found the imitation unsatisfactory without ever knowing why.

"There is no return from Valinor," Elrohir said. "Well, except in the case of Glorfindel, and no-one knows why he was sent back – not even him. Perhaps it was to teach swordsmanship to myself and my brother."

"He must be good, for you are very skilled," Cierre said.

"We have needed to be," Elrohir said. "But we have strayed from the matter of your Westron lessons." He switched languages. "I shall talk in Westron from now on. You must ask if you need anything translated."

"Not understand 'translate-ed'," Cierre said, in her awkward Westron.

Elrohir repeated the word in Sindarin.

Cierre nodded. "Yes, I ask you if I need translate-ed," she said. "You tell me about this… war," she requested, having to use Sindarin for the final word. "We fight much but I not know why. Understand Saruman want to rule Rohan, not understand about Sauron, know Minas Tirith only that Boromir ask me go… to go… there. You tell me more."

Elrohir obeyed and, as the fleet laboured upstream against the current, he related the events that had led up to the current war. He abbreviated his account considerably, of course, and omitted all mention of the Ring. During the telling of the tale, however, Sauron's true nature came out.

Cierre's eyes blazed amber. "He is Fall-ed… Solar?" she said, falling back on Sindarin for the last word. "Like Malkivid?"

"Fallen Solar," Elrohir corrected her. "Yes, he is the same type of being as the one who corrupted the Elves in your world. Once he was perhaps the greatest of the Maiar, the servants of the Valar, but he followed Morgoth and fell into Evil."

"_Usstan orn vith'ez elgg ukta!_" Cierre spat out. "I will kill him. Malkizid go where I cannot follow. I kill Sauron in-stead."

Gimli had been talking quietly to Legolas, who was sitting a few feet away from Cierre and Elrohir and staring out over the dark water, but now the Dwarf looked up. "That's impossible, lass," Gimli said, speaking in Westron. "He's a foe far above the likes of us."

"Not understand 'impossible'," Cierre said.

Gimli hesitated, for his Sindarin was not perfect and he could not think of the word at once, and it was Elrohir who supplied the translation.

"Not understand impossible," Cierre repeated, her tone and the determined set of her jaw making it clear that what she meant was that she did not accept the impossibility of the task. "Heleg Naur can kill _anything_. Especially," she used the Sindarin word and then reverted back to Westron, "if I thrust it up his…"

"Perhaps, perhaps," Gimli said, his cheeks reddening, before Cierre could complete her sentence, "but you'd never get to him, lass. Barad-dûr is impregnable and guarded by vast numbers of Orcs and Trolls."

"I kill Orcs and Trolls first," said Cierre, not bothering to ask for a translation of 'impregnable'.

"I wouldn't put it past you," Gimli said, "but first we'll have to deal with the army that Strider reckons will be surrounding Minas Tirith by now."

"Will kill them all," Cierre declared. "We have many sacks arrows, is open plain – yes? Nowhere to hide. Legolas and me we kill _hundreds_."

"Leave some for me, lass," Gimli said, a grin beginning to spread across his face.

"I don't think there'll be any danger of her getting all of them, friend Dwarf," Elrohir said, "although I have no doubt that she'll try. You know, impregnable fortress or not, if Sauron could see our fierce dark warrior maid I think that indeed he would know fear."

Cierre sensed eyes upon her and turned to see Aragorn looking at her with his lips pursed and a thoughtful expression on his face. He spoke up when he noticed that he was observed.

"Perhaps that is so, my brother," Aragorn said to Elrohir. "Certainly the hosts arrayed against the White City have cause to fear. They outnumber us many times over, it is true, but we have fifty ships full of stout Men and they will have no archers who can even come close to the skill of Legolas and Cierre. Their foul master has even provided a shroud of darkness that will enable Cierre to loose at her full potential while still being light enough for Legolas to see. We will give a good account of ourselves. And the Rohirrim will come, too." He turned to gaze upstream. "I only hope that they, and we, arrive in time."

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Less than a thousand, I would say," Éowyn said, looking down from the cliff edge to where the Dunlendings were beginning to ascend the winding road that led up to Dunharrow. "Some eight hundred, perhaps, or a few more. They take up as much space as would six or seven dismounted éoreds."

"All I can tell, in this darkness, is that there are a lot of them," said Merry. "Quite a few more than we have warriors even counting the… shieldmaidens."

"_Even_ counting the shieldmaidens?" Éowyn shook her head. "You should know better than that, Merry. A shieldmaiden of the Mark is more than a match for a man of any other nation." She backed away from the cliff edge. "The Dunlendings will be at a great disadvantage on the narrow ascent," she went on, "and with our mounted éored poised to strike if the Dunlendings break through our foot I have no cause to fear that they might prevail. Some of us will die, and for no good reason, that is all. Fools! What do they hope to achieve by this assault? Their force must be all that escaped from the rout at Helm's Deep. There cannot be many left behind to defend their own lands, and there are still Orcs at large. They will bring ruin upon themselves for the sake of pointless revenge." She turned away from Merry to give instructions to some of the Rohirrim who were making their way toward the cliff road.

"Spears in the front and centre," Éowyn ordered. "Archers to the flanks. Swords and axes to the rear, to fall upon any who break through the spear-hedge." She saw that the mounted éored was forming up directly in front of the road, frowned, and quickened her pace. "Fréawulf!" she called. "You should not be there. We need to meet them with a shield-wall and spears. You are to be in reserve at the rear."

Fréawulf ignored her. He rose in his stirrups and shouted out to his éored. "We shall sweep them away by sudden assault," he cried. "The Dunlendings cannot stand before us. Forth Éorlingas!" Then he set spurs to his steed and it leapt forward. The Riders followed as one and thundered down the causeway.

"Stop!" Éowyn yelled, at the top of her voice. "Come back! Fréawulf, you fool, you lead your Riders to destruction! Stop!"

Two Riders, at the rear of the éored, heard her and obeyed. They reined in their horses, turned, and came back up to rejoin the footmen. The others, whether because they failed to hear her over the noise of the pounding hooves or because they were carried away by the impulse to charge, continued on.

"Stop!" Éowyn shouted again, to no avail, and then gave up. "This is madness," she said to Merry. "Any half-competent enemy commander will meet them at a turn, where the horses must slow to a walk, and his front line will be able to hold the Riders off while the rest of his men assail the éored's flanks with javelins and hurled axes. And a commander who managed to extricate his men from Helm's Deep, fighting through Saruman's Uruk-Hai to do so, will be more than half-competent. Fréawulf is throwing away his life, and the lives of his Riders, for no…" Her voice trailed away and she clenched her teeth tightly.

Merry looked down over the cliff again and saw that, as Éowyn had said, the horsemen were being forced to slow to walking pace when they approached the tight turns in the zig-zag road. It was impossible to maintain the momentum of their charge.

"I am a fool," Éowyn said, her tone bitter. "Fréawulf stole gold and gems from Cierre and I did not make public his disgrace. I felt it would dishearten our people and I told him judgement would be postponed until Théoden King returned. But he knows he is dishonoured and now he seeks death in battle to, as he sees it, redeem himself. And he drags an entire éored to their doom along with him! Curse him, and shame on me for not stripping him of his office on the spot."

She turned once more and began barking out commands. "Herumund!" she addressed one of the two Riders who had held back from the charge. "You now command what remains of our mounted force. Find any who are fit to fight horsed, and who can quickly lay hands upon a mount, and organise what you can. Make haste!"

"At once, Lady Éowyn," Herumund replied. The majority of those who formed the foot contingent at Dunharrow had suffered minor injuries, or more serious injuries that had been alleviated by the healing spells of Cierre and the Rangers, at Helm's Deep and had been judged unfit for the long march to Gondor. Many had passed on their horses to serve as remounts for the main army. A few, however, had kept back their mounts; some because the horse, too, had suffered injury at Helm's Deep and some because their steeds were temperamental beasts that would accept only their own Rider. Yet it was only nine Riders who were able to respond to the summons.

Down on the road below the Dunlendings had advanced past a sharp corner and then, as Éowyn had predicted, pulled back and formed up below the bend. "Why did they do that?" Éowyn wondered. "I suspect a trap. Caltrops, perhaps, dropped on the path to lame the horses. Fréawulf, you fool, can you not see the danger?"

It seemed that he suspected nothing and he led his men forward at the best pace they could manage on the twisting road. And, as they reached the section that the Dunlendings had occupied for a brief time, the horses began to fall. Not caltrops but a simpler, more easily improvised, hazard; small rounded logs, invisible in the dim light, that turned under the horses' feet and sent them stumbling. Several went over the edge of the path and fell to their deaths, carrying their riders with them, and others lost their footing and crashed to the ground. A hail of darts and light axes flew from the Dunlendings into the flank of the éored, again exactly according to Éowyn's prediction, and sent Riders tumbling from the saddle. And then the Dunlendings charged, with sword and axe, into a body of horsemen that was no longer an advancing formation but an almost stationary tangle of horses and men.

The Riders fought, of course, but everything was against them. Few of the Dunlendings fell and the Rohirrim were hewn down by the score. Those who turned to flee were struck in the back by yet more axes and javelins. Of the one hundred and eighteen who had set off down the slope only six made it back to the top. Fréawulf was not among them.

"Up here in the open those Riders could have given the Dunlendings a mauling from which they would not have recovered," Éowyn said. "Now we must fight them with no reserve, and with the people shocked and discouraged, and what would have been our certain victory is now in doubt. Would that Cierre was here! The Dunlendings would quail at the sight of she whom they call the _Dugurach_ and perhaps even withdraw without another blow being struck. Alas, she is many leagues from here. I will have to do my best to reorganise the defence."

Merry looked at Éowyn, tall and slim and fair of hair, and a thought struck him. A wild idea, born out of desperation and perhaps with little chance of success, but there seemed to be nothing to lose. "Wait, Lady Éowyn," he said. "Perhaps there is a way that Cierre could be here after all…"


	8. And I'll find strength in pain

**Chapter Eight: And I'll find strength in pain**

Éowyn applied the soot around her eyes with care, making sure that her eyelids were completely covered but that none went into her eyes, and then speeded up as she covered the rest of her face. She ran sooty hands over the backs of her ears, daubed the inside with her fingers, and smeared soot down her neck. Onward to her arms and shoulders, covering every inch, and reaching inside her sleeves and down the front of her bodice. Lastly she lifted the hem of her kirtle, grimacing as she left sooty finger-marks on the garment, and blackened the area between the tops of her boots and her knees.

"An unnecessary precaution, perhaps," she muttered, "but they will be below me and I might have cause to kick." Éowyn let the hem fall, straightened up, and turned to a slightly red-faced Merry. "Do you see any gaps?" she asked.

The Hobbit scrutinised her. "The inside of your nose shows pink," he said. "I'm not tall enough to be sure about everywhere, though. Perhaps you should have brought a maid."

"There was no time," Éowyn said. She put a hand into the bag of soot, rubbed her hands together, and then ran a sooty finger around the rims of her nostrils. "Stand on a chair, then."

Merry paused before mounting the chair, snatched up the chalk that had been used to finish the preparation of the vellum, and then climbed onto the chair. "This will make sure that your hair is pale enough," he said, and brushed the chalk over her hair. He peered at her closely and suddenly his cheeks flamed red. "I… uh… can't see any gaps in the soot," he said, his voice breaking into a squeak half-way through. "Uh, turn around."

Éowyn's cheeks felt hot; no doubt they would have showed an equally red colour had it not been for the covering of soot. Merry had, she guessed, seen lower down her front than was proper. Hastily she turned around, as he had requested, so that he could check the rear view for imperfections in the disguise.

He rubbed the chalk over her hair again, running it along the tresses that hung down her back, and then assured her, in a voice that had regained some measure of control, that he could see no omissions in the coverage. "I hope this works," he said. "You do look very like Cierre, now, but you don't have her yellow eyes."

"I think this will fool them," said Éowyn. "After all, the only Dunlendings who saw Cierre up close are all dead. And it is a cool night, so I will not sweat and ruin the illusion. But if my masquerade is not enough to cause them to flee then I will have to emulate her feats of arms. That may be beyond my abilities."

"You'll do fine," Merry assured her. "You'd better get your hauberk on."

"Cierre does not wear one," Éowyn mused, "but I have no armour of green leather such as she wears. And the Dunlendings would see chainmail as superior and it would not make them question my identity." She took up the hauberk and pulled it on over her head. The ends of her hair lodged under the garment and she reached her hand up to pull the tresses free.

"I'll do that," Merry volunteered. "You'd get soot on your hair." He adjusted her hair and applied a little more chalk. Then Éowyn turned around. "There's a smudge of chalk on your nose, and the soot has rubbed off your left cheek," Merry warned her. "Oh, and your left arm now has a streak of clean skin."

Éowyn daubed soot on her arm, repairing where the original application had rubbed away, and then saw to her cheek. After that she stroked her hand down her nose.

"Wait!" Merry urged, as she raised her hand for another stroke. "That's… perfect. Somehow it looks much more natural than before. Just like Cierre's skin. Leave it at that."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "If you say so, Meriadoc, although it needs only be good enough to pass muster by the light of torches," she said. She took up her sword. "There is no time for more in any event. This will have to do."

Merry stepped down from the chair and followed her out onto the field. The first person they met was a woman who screamed out in fright. A Rider, one of those who had been among the footmen but had withdrawn to find a mount after the destruction of the éored, rode toward the scream but reined in his horse when he saw the cause.

"Cierre!" he exclaimed, speaking in Westron. "Did you, then, not take the Paths of the Dead? Thank Béma you are here."

"Well, that's a promising start," Merry commented.

Éowyn flashed him a brief smile, her teeth gleaming white against her newly black skin, and then spoke to the Rider. "I am only pretending to be Cierre, Aldfara," she said. "Let us hope the Dunlendings are fooled also. I see a hand-axe at your belt; will you lend it to me?"

"Lady Éowyn?" Aldfara leaned over and stared. "Béma! You are the very image of the Dark Elf save that your armour is not green and you carry no bow or… axe." He pulled the axe from his belt and handed it over. "Take it and use it well, my Lady."

It was a well-made weapon, with a 'bearded' blade that could be used to hook an enemy's shield and pull it aside, and a vicious spike protruding from the reverse of the blade. "I thank you, Aldfara," Éowyn said, hefting the axe in her left hand. "This should serve well indeed." Aldfara dipped his head in acknowledgment, wheeled his horse around, and set off again at a canter.

Éowyn hastened on toward the cliff path, walking at such a pace that Merry had to run to keep up with her, passing through women and children who were hastening to the rear away from the approaching Dunlendings. Some of the children cried out in fear and even ran from her; others, who had seen Cierre as she passed through Dunharrow or had heard her described by fathers who had fought at Helm's Deep, called out in greeting or shouted acclaim; and one overly perceptive girl enquired "Mama, why has Lady Éowyn made herself look like the Dark Elf?"

Éowyn laughed but could not spare the time to pause and explain. She maintained her quick pace and, as she neared the defenders at the place where the road reached the top of the cliff, she gave a shout of "_Ultrinnan!_"

Heads turned among the swordsmen and axe-men who, as Éowyn had directed, made up the rear line of defence. The few Riders on horseback, the survivors of the ill-fated charge plus those footmen who had managed to acquire horses while Éowyn was donning her disguise, wheeled around and raised their weapons high. "_Ultrinnan!_" they shouted. "Cierre for the Mark!" Aldfara was among them, having outpaced Éowyn, and no doubt he had forewarned the other Riders. It lifted Éowyn's spirits nonetheless.

The archers at the flanks were loosing shafts but there was no sign that hand-to-hand combat had begun. Éowyn had feared that the Dunlendings might have reached the cliff-top while she was away but that had not happened. "Let me through," she called, and the ranks parted. Éowyn made her way through, taking care not to brush against anyone lest she wipe away the soot, and Merry followed at her heels.

The front rank of the Dunlendings had just rounded the last bend, forty yards away, and as they saw Éowyn they came to a halt. It had taken them longer to make the ascent than Éowyn would have expected; perhaps, she thought, they had been delayed by having to scramble over, or past, the dead horses that must have formed a barrier to their progress. Whatever the reason she was deeply thankful for the delay; her appearance would have made much less of an impact if the two forces had been already engaged.

The ranks of spearmen, blocking the exit of the road and overlapping to the sides, closed up behind Éowyn. She felt her heart pounding. If her bluff did not work, and the Dunlendings charged at her in a body, she would be overwhelmed. She was committed now and it was too late now to change her mind; if she turned back, and demanded that the shield-wall open up to admit her, it would create an opening that the Dunlendings might exploit with a sudden charge. And if they broke through, with only seventeen horsemen now remaining to mount a counter-attack, the likelihood was that they would overrun Dunharrow and the women and children would be at their mercy. Éowyn summoned up her resolve, suppressed her fear, and advanced at a slow walk.

She could hear cries of '_Dugurach_' from the ranks of the Dunlendings, in tones of alarm, and she saw that their advance had come to a dead halt. An arrow sailed out from the midst of the enemy, aimed at her, but the archer must have been unsighted and it missed her by a good five feet. No further arrows followed.

Éowyn halted and raised her sword high. "_Ultrinnan!_" she cried again, and then, emulating Cierre's imperfect Westron as best she could, added "Who die first?"

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Cadarn stared in horror at the _Dugurach_. He had been certain that she would have gone with the _Forgoil_ army to the city of the Stonelendings. If he had known she was here he would have reconsidered this whole venture. Revenge, and the prospect of loot and of women to take as slaves, might not be enough incentive to get his men to follow him when faced with such a deadly opponent. He had seen her slay a whole troop in less than a minute, and cleave Gethmadoc in two at the waist, and the thought of facing her sword to sword made him shudder. Yet if he called for a retreat now, when they had won no loot and achieved only a small victory against a single troop of the _Forgoil_ horsemen, he would be finished as a chieftain.

At his side stood the mightiest Dunlending warrior to have survived the disaster at Helm's Deep; Tansad, known as the Iron Man of Dunland, whose son Gutho had been slain by the _Dugurach_. Tansad had been stunned by a fall from a siege ladder, relatively early in the Battle of the Hornburg, and had recovered too late to take any part in the fight against Cierre.

"That witch killed my son," Tansad growled. "I will have my revenge." He brandished his battle-axe and shouted out a reply to the _Dugurach's_ challenge. "I will have your head, witch!" Then he strode forward.

Cadarn, somewhat reluctantly, went with him; he feared loss of status slightly more than he feared the dread black-skinned female warrior who faced them. Tansad was left-handed, something that gave him an advantage against most opponents, and so Cadarn positioned himself to Tansad's right. "Be wary of her spell of Darkness," he warned the Iron Man. "Take care, if she casts it, not to smite me in error. Several of our men at the stone castle died at the hands of their fellows in the blackness."

Tansad merely grunted in reply. Cadarn had a feeling that the veteran warrior would regard accidentally striking him as an acceptable loss if the _Dugurach_ perished along with him. He resolved to retreat quickly, if the witch cast the spell, and let Tansad swing his axe unhindered.

As they approached the black-skinned female Cadarn noticed a small figure behind her. His heart sank for a moment and then he realised that it was not the Dwarf who had wielded his axe with such deadly effect at the wall of the stone castle. This Dwarf had no beard, and held a long dagger instead of an axe; a son of the other Dwarf, perhaps? He did not look as formidable as the other, and was too far back to be able to aid the witch immediately, and Cadarn's confidence began to rise. There was no sign of the _Dugurach_ casting any spell and surely she could not defeat him and the mighty Tansad, both at once, without the aid of sorcery. Tansad broke into a run and Cadarn charged with him. He raised his sword to strike.

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Éowyn saw two Men step forward from the ranks of the Dunlendings and advance. One of them shouted a challenge, incomprehensible to her as it was in his own language, but she responded with another cry of "_Ultrinnan!_" nonetheless. She studied the warriors. They were better equipped than their fellows, wearing fine chain-mail hauberks that most likely had been taken from dead Riders, and she deduced that they were chieftains or champions of their people. If she could slay them it could well break the morale of the Dunlendings entirely and cause them to retreat. Yet defeating them would be difficult. Éowyn had no fear of any Man, and believed that she could give a good account of herself even against a warrior such as her brother or Erkenbrand if she had room to manoeuvre, but two at once, in the restricted space of the cliff road, was quite another matter. Her only chance, she knew, rested upon the unconventional moves taught to her by Cierre.

Éowyn lowered her sword until its tip rested almost on the ground. The Dunlending to her right, a massive Man who stood well over six feet tall and bore a single-handed battle-axe and shield, was left-handed. This could work to her advantage. Behind the two Men she saw another Dunlending beginning to run forward but she paid him no heed for the moment. The fight would be over, one way or another, before he could get involved. She poised herself for action; timing would be everything in this fight.

The tall Dunlending's axe came up in preparation for a downward strike. Éowyn took two quick steps forward and brought up her sword in the lightning-fast flick that she had used successfully against the training dummy. Her aim was good and her blade struck home under the base of the warrior's arm. The blade did not cut through the chain above the shoulder, and for an instant it seemed that all she had achieved was to make the warrior release his axe, but then the arm flopped down, the few shreds of skin and flesh that were still attached tore free, and the severed limb fell to the ground. A torrent of blood accompanied it, pouring down the side of the hauberk, and began to form a pool on the road.

Even before the arm had fallen Éowyn had struck again. The other Dunlending was still readjusting his aim to compensate for her movement when she lashed up with her hand-axe, striking with the spike at the reverse of the blade, and aiming between his legs.

Cadarn screamed at a pitch that should have been impossible for a male voice. His sword fell from nerveless fingers. Éowyn wrenched the axe free, releasing another torrent of blood, and Cadarn sank to his knees. He clutched at his groin, still screaming, and Éowyn lifted her left foot and kicked him off the edge of the road. His screams were cut off as he slid down the slope, nearly vertical at this point, crashing against rocks until he landed on a lower section of the zig-zag road and lay still.

Tansad somehow managed to remain on his feet, despite his ghastly wound, and he struck out with his shield and drove it against Éowyn. He caught her in the middle of bringing down her foot after kicking Cadarn and she lost her balance and went down. She landed on her backside, sending a painful jolt through her spine, but suffered no injury. At once she retaliated, sweeping her sword around at Tansad's legs, and the enchanted blade sheared through his left leg at shin level and swept on to bite deep into his right calf. The tall warrior toppled like a felled tree.

Éowyn scrambled to her feet. She considered delivering a finishing blow as an act of mercy; the bravery of this Man, who had attempted to fight on even after suffering a terrible injury, was worthy of respect even in an enemy. However she believed that Cierre would have left him lying, moaning in agony, to inspire even more terror in the foe. For the moment, therefore, she acted as Cierre would have done and withheld the mercy stroke.

She lifted her gaze to the third Dunlending, ten yards away, and saw that he held a hand-axe and was drawing back his arm for a throw. She had no shield, her hand-axe was held low and she would never get it into position for a throw in time to beat the Dunlending, and all she could do was to tense ready to try to dodge the weapon. Then something flashed past her and struck the attacker in the throat.

The hand-axe dropped to the ground, the throw uncompleted, and the Dunlending clawed at his throat and fell on his face. Merry had thrown a knife; not the long knife that served him as a sword but the small, razor-sharp, knife borrowed from Derngar the fletcher to fashion quill pens.

Éowyn glanced back over her shoulder, saw Merry's arm still extended from the throw, and realised what had happened. Quite possibly Merry had saved her from death or serious injury. "Thank you, _abbil_," she called. She could remember Cierre using that word to her, in a context that implied that it meant 'friend', and she thought that saying something other than '_ultrinnan_' might provide an additional touch of verisimilitude to her impersonation. Then she turned back to face the remaining Dunlendings and shouted out "_Ultrinnan!_" yet again. She took a single stride toward them… and they broke.

The Dunlendings turned around, almost in unison, and began to retreat down the road. The retreat rapidly became a rout, their pace quickening to a headlong run, and a few at the fringes of the mob were jostled so badly that they went over the edge of the path and fell to suffer death or injury on the steep slope.

Éowyn watched their flight until it was quite obvious that they would not be returning. Then she went to the body of the tall axe-man and looked down upon him. She was ready to administer a mercy stroke but she saw that it would not be necessary; the Dunlending warrior lay still and silent, the blood flow had stopped, and it was apparent that he had died from shock or loss of blood. Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief and made her way back up the road.

"I thank you, Meriadoc," she said to the Hobbit. "Your quick action may have saved my life and your cunning scheme has driven off the Dunlendings. You are a worthy ally of the Mark and deserve great honour and praise."

Merry looked up at her with a solemn expression. "I've never killed a Man before," he said. "I stabbed some Orcs, when they took us prisoner, but it's not the same."

"I know," Éowyn said. "I, too, had slain Orcs before this day but never a Man. Cierre told me that war is more about butchery than glory and I see that she was right." She realised that she was still holding her sword, and made to sheath it, but then remembered that the blade was covered in blood. She could not face wiping it clean and so continued to hold it, merely lowering it to point toward the ground, and lowered the bloody hand-axe too. "But we drove off the enemy and saved Dunharrow. That is what matters."

"True," said Merry, "but I still feel… sick."

"As do I," said Éowyn, "and I really need a bath."

Merry grinned. "More so than ever before in your life, I would say," he said.

Éowyn could only nod in reply. She was feeling nauseous and weary but she forced a smile onto her face as she led Merry the rest of the way up the road to meet the rejoicing crowd. Victory did not taste as sweet as she had expected but it was, she knew, much better than defeat.

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"They… do not… pursue," a Dunlending declared, his speech laboured as he panted for breath.

"We slew most… of their horsemen, I think," another said. "They will… not… pursue on foot."

One who was bent over, clutching his knees, straightened up and took a deep breath. "Yet if the _Dugurach_ follows us we will be at her mercy in the darkness," he said. "We must get far away from here."

"But where shall we go?" asked another. "Back to our villages, defeated, with nothing to show for this venture but dead chieftains? And if the _Forgoil_ army returns from the land of the Stonelendings they will invade our lands and destroy us."

"We could still attack their capital," the second speaker suggested. "Even now we outnumber those we saw there by some two to one."

"If their… horsemen come out to attack us… on the open plain… we will be cut to pieces," said he who had spoken first. "That is why Cadarn led us past Edoras and it was a wise decision."

"Unlike his decision to bring us to this place," another said, bitterly.

"He could not have known that the _Dugurach_ would be here," the first speaker defended the fallen chieftain, "and he has died for his choice. Let him rest in peace."

"Saruman asked for Men to go North-west, to a land in Eriador called the Shire," said the one who had feared that the _Dugurach_ would pursue. "He said it is a rich land, ripe for the picking, defended only by a race of small people with no armies. Perhaps we could go there."

"We will be in disfavour with the Old Man after our flight from the battle at the stone walls," said he who had wondered where they should go. "There may be no welcome for us in this 'Shire'."

"Who is to know we were there?" the previous speaker pointed out. "The Orcs were destroyed. There is none to bear witness against us. We can claim that we were never at the battle."

"I will go back to my farm," said another, "and trust that the _Forgoil_ army perishes in the war to the South."

"Not I," a youth, whose beard had barely begun to grow, declared. "I will seek out the Shire. Perhaps there may be riches to be won there."

A debate began and expanded as the last stragglers of the rout arrived and joined in. Eventually the majority decided to return to Dunland. A large contingent, however, declared for the Shire. As the route to Eriador would take them first to Dunland others decided to delay their decision. Some considered collecting their families, as they passed through their homeland, and taking them to the Shire to settle in new lands won at the point of the sword. By the time they set off again, to sneak past Edoras once more and head for the Gap of Rohan, nearly two hundred were committed to continuing on to the Shire.

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Pippin watched from the shadows as Gandalf faced the Lord of the Nazgûl.

"Old fool!" said the Witch-King. "This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!' And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

"No," said Gandalf, "Death comes for you, with a heart that knows no fear and a weapon that can cleave through anything, and terror walks at her side."

The Lord of the Nazgûl seemed to falter. His face could not be seen to read his expression but his sword lowered slightly. "At _her_ side?" he echoed.

And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.

As if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin's sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.

The Ringwraith turned his horse around and galloped off. He was out of sight within moments. Gandalf sat still for a moment, listening, and then urged Shadowfax forward.

Pippin ran out from his position of concealment. "Gandalf! Gandalf!" he cried. "Wait!"

Gandalf brought Shadowfax to a halt and turned his head. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Is it not a law in the City that those who wear the black and silver must stay in the Citadel, unless their lord gives them leave?"

"He has," Pippin answered. "He sent me away. But I am frightened. Something terrible may happen up there. The Lord is out of his mind, I think. I am afraid he will kill himself, and kill Faramir too. Can't you do something?"

Gandalf looked through the gaping Gate, and already on the fields he heard the gathering sound of battle. He clenched his hand into a fist. "I must go forth," he said. "The Black Rider is abroad, and he will yet bring ruin on us. I have no time."

"But Faramir!" cried Pippin. "He is not dead, and they will burn him alive, if someone does not stop them."

"Burn him alive?" said Gandalf. "What is this tale? Be quick!"

Pippin spoke in haste, relating the tale of Denethor's madness and of the pyre he was having built for himself and Faramir, and he implored Gandalf to come to Faramir's rescue. "And did you not say that Cierre was coming to kill the Black Rider?" Pippin finished. "You can leave him to her and save Faramir."

"I was bluffing," Gandalf confessed. "I believe she is capable of killing him, indeed, but I know not where she is at this time. Glorfindel's prophecy of the Witch-King's doom may refer to Cierre, perhaps, but I am only guessing and so I named her not. I sought only to sow doubt in the Nazgûl's mind."

"I think you succeeded," Pippin said, "but you must come now or Faramir will perish."

"It seems I must, for no other help will come to him," said Gandalf, "but I fear evil will come of this and others will die." He reached out his hand, swept Pippin into the saddle, and turned Shadowfax about. They rode up the winding streets, observing Men rising from their despair and taking up their weapons with new hope, and soon came upon Prince Imrahil at the head of his Swan Knights.

"Whither now, Mithrandir?" Imrahil called. "The Rohirrim are fighting on the fields of Gondor! We must gather all the strength that we can find."

"You will need every man and more," Gandalf agreed. "Make all haste. I will come when I can. But I have an errand to the Lord Denethor that will not wait. Take command in the Lord's absence!"

And they left Imrahil behind, and raced on to the Citadel, while behind them the great battle began.

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Théoden had divided his forces into four. The centre would be the Royal Guard of three hundred Riders, with Éomer commanding a division of eighteen éoreds following immediately behind; the right wing would be Marshall Elfhelm, with another eighteen éoreds; and at the left Grimbold, promoted to Marshall after the death of Théodred, with the same number under his command. The remaining six éoreds he appointed as a rearguard, under a Captain named Fastred who had distinguished himself at Helm's Deep, with instructions to allow the main body to get a league ahead and then follow. If any foe sought to encircle the leading divisions Fastred was to come to the rescue and fall upon the enemy from behind.

The host of Rohan passed through the out-walls of the Rammas with no alarm being raised. The few Orcs that manned the position were taken unawares, for they knew that a strong guard blocked the road from Rohan, and had believed that no foe could come upon them without a fierce fight which would raise the alarm. They were cut down in moments, without loss to the Riders, and the Rohirrim advanced onto the fields with their presence still unsuspected.

Then a wind sprang up, parting the clouds that Sauron had sent to block out the sun, and light glimmered in the skies to the South. A good omen, the Riders felt, and their hearts lifted. Almost at the same time, however, a brilliant flash as of lightning lit up the White City. It was half a minute before the 'boom!' of the thunderclap reached the ranks of the Rohirrim.

At that sound the king rose in his stirrups. "_Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!_" he cried.

"_Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!_

_Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,_

_A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!_

_Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!_"

He took a horn from his banner-bearer Guthláf and blew a great blast upon it. Throughout the host horns blew in answer. "_Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!_" Théoden called again, and the éoreds rolled forward and swept across the field like three great waves.

War-cries sounded from each of the divisions. "For the Mark!" and "Eorlingas!" and "For Théoden King!" But from Éomer's division, most of whom had been at the Hornburg, went up their new battle-cry. "_Ultrinnan!_"

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A thunderous knocking on his chamber door woke Elladan. "Yes?" he called.

The door opened and Prentice rushed in. "Zesyyr sends word that the army of the Valsharess has been sighted," the Wizard announced, "and I cannot find… Nathyrra…" His voice trailed away as the face of the Drow in question appeared from behind Elladan's shoulder.

"I am here, Wizard," Nathyrra said, raising herself up on one elbow and holding up the sheet to conceal her breasts. "I will dress and arm myself as fast as I can."

"Oh. Uh. Right," Prentice said, blushing red. "Um, congratulations."

"We are not betrothed," Nathyrra said. "We but sought comfort, after the horrors we saw in the lair of the vampires, and there has been no talk yet of love. Such matters must wait until the threat of the Valsharess is ended."

Elladan reached up and touched her cheek with his fingers. "Indeed so," he said, "but once she is gone then I will have much to say to you. For now, though, we must fight."

"She strikes sooner than I would have wished," said Prentice. "We have slain most of her prospective allies but we had no chance to travel to the islands. I know not what recruits to her cause she may have found there."

"It cannot be helped," Elladan said. "Now, if you would leave us to dress…"

"Oh. Of course," Prentice said, the blush returning to his cheeks, and he hastened out.

Nathyrra slipped from the bed and stood up. Elladan's body reacted to the sight of her nude form, even though they had made love six times already during the sleep period, and as he rose from the bed Nathyrra glanced in his direction and her eyebrows rose.

"I can hardly believe that fit inside me," she said, "and I would dearly like to rediscover how it was achieved. Alas that there is no time." She was dressing even as she spoke.

Elladan began pulling on his clothes. "You speak for me too," he said. "I look forward to our own personal victory celebration. But after that I will have another Dark Lord to confront."

"I will be at your side, if you will have me," Nathyrra offered, as she buckled her sword-belt at her waist.

"I could ask for no better partner," said Elladan, "in any sense." He donned his armour, his arousal having diminished enough for him to manage it without excessive discomfort, and buckled up the straps. Nathyrra came to assist him with the task; her proximity reawakened his desire and made him wish that his mithril armour was more flexible in certain areas. He could not hold back from placing a soft kiss upon her cheek.

"Later, my lover," Nathyrra said, but she reciprocated his gesture. She handed him his sword-belt and then took up her crossbow. Elladan fastened his belt, picked up his bow and quiver, and made for the door.

In the corridor they saw Prentice again, even redder of face, standing outside Valen's room. "I am so sorry," he was saying. "Oh my goodness! I am so sorry!"

"I take it Valen also did not sleep alone," Elladan deduced. "Matron Mother Myrune? No, she would insist that he go to her chambers. And Zesyyr must be elsewhere if she sent word to you about the approaching army. Who was it?"

"The, ah, Deva who we rescued from the vampires," Prentice replied.

"Lavoera," Nathyrra supplied.

"Yes, Lavoera," Prentice said. "And they were actually… doing it. I've never been so embarrassed in my life!"

"Well," Elladan said, "I hope they finish… doing it… quickly. We have a battle to fight!"

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Théoden's guard smashed through the Haradrim cavalry. Théoden made for the Amir commanding the contingent and the point of his lance drove through the Southron's gilded armour and burst out through the back. Théoden released the trapped weapon, drew sword, and charged on to the standard bearer. He hewed through the banner's shaft, sending the Black Serpent flag fluttering to the ground, and struck again to send the bearer tumbling from his horse. The Southron regiment numbered a full thousand, more than three times as many as Théoden's guard, and the king had far outpaced Éomer's division and had no reinforcements to hand. Yet in the first clash of arms nearly three hundred of the Haradrim had fallen, and they had inflicted a mere handful of casualties in return, and when they saw their Amir and his banner fall they lost heart and turned and fled at a headlong pace.

Then, in the moment of Théoden's triumph, a shadow fell over the Riders as a great flying beast descended from the sky. Cierre would have named it a wyvern, for it was not of dragon-kind; it had but two legs, though it bore no feathers, and had leathery flight membranes stretched between long fingers like those of a bat. Astride the loathsome creature sat the Lord of the Nazgûl. The horses of the Rohirrim reared and wheeled about in panic. Few of the Riders could retain enough self-control to attempt to restrain them. Many were cast from the saddle, to lie upon the ground bereft of wit and helpless in their fear, and others were carried away by their fleeing mounts.

"To me! To me!" cried Théoden. "Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!" But his steed Snowmane reared high, striking with his hooves at an opponent beyond his reach, and then a dart streaked from the Nazgûl's hand and struck Snowmane in the neck. The war-horse lost its footing and crashed to the ground. Théoden was pinned beneath it and, as Snowmane writhed in pain and fear, Théoden's leg was crushed and broken.

The fell flying creature swooped down and landed upon the body of the horse. The wyvern's lizard-like head, borne upon a long scaly neck, dipped to the neck of Snowmane. The fanged jaws ripped, and tore, and the horse shuddered and lay still.

Yet Théoden was not utterly forsaken, for faithful Háma, the door-ward of Meduseld, had dismounted from his steed before it could bear him away. "You shall not touch my lord and master!" Háma cried, drawing sword and rushing to the king's aid. He struck one blow, making a rent in the membrane of one of the great wings, and then the Witch-King leaned forward and lashed out with his flaming sword. Háma's head flew from his shoulders and rolled upon the ground.

Then the Lord of the Nazgûl gave his dread mount a command and the beast lowered its head once more. Its fangs closed upon the head of Théoden, and sheared through flesh, and Théoden's head too was severed from his body. The Witch-King laughed, a sound like unto the grating of a rusted portcullis being raised, and ordered his steed into the air once more.

From the gate of Minas Tirith there issued a sortie; Prince Imrahil, and his sons Erchirion and Amrothos, leading forth the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth to drive away the enemy from before the gate now that the ranks of the foe were disordered by the onslaught of the Rohirrim.

The Lord of the Nazgûl saw them come, and recognised Imrahil by the banner of the Silver Swan, and knew that here was one who could lead the Men of Gondor to great deeds of valour. He urged his fell steed across the battlefield to intercept, positioned himself above the Swan Knights, and swooped down to attack again.

Once more chaos and terror spread as the Witch-King descended. The Swan Knights scattered, and some were thrown from their horses, and others were carried away across the fields and set upon by Orcs and Southrons. Prince Amrothos was thrown heavily and lay stunned. Erchirion, however, managed to dismount in good order and readied his sword to fight against this enemy from the skies. Imrahil's horse reared, as had Théoden's, and again the Ringwraith threw a dart. Imrahil's charger was protected by armoured barding and this time the dart glanced off harmlessly. The horse returned its feet to the ground and Imrahil swung down from the saddle. Father and son stood together and raised their weapons in defiance of the Morgul Lord.

Down plunged the wyvern. The Witch-King extended a pointing hand and spoke a Word of Power. Imrahil's sword shattered in his grasp. The fell beast seized the prince in its talons and climbed upward. Yet even as its talons closed Prince Erchirion hewed at it and inflicted a wound upon the muscles of its breast. The injury did not hinder the creature from ascending high. Two hundred feet above the ground it opened its claws and let Imrahil plummet to his death.

The Ringwraith urged his steed down again. It hurtled toward Erchirion, smashed into him, and knocked the young prince from his feet. Its head darted out on its long neck and the jaws clamped upon Erchirion's sword-arm. It wrenched, and tore, and tossed Erchirion away. The arm, severed at the elbow, remained in the wyvern's jaws. The prince crashed to the ground and lay still.

The Witch-King set his course upward once again. The flying steed rose more slowly than before. The two wounds, one to a wing membrane and the other to the flight muscles, were hampering its progress. There was no danger, as yet, of it being unable to stay in the air but its speed and manoeuvrability were impaired. The Nazgûl frowned, although as he was invisible and a hundred feet up in the air none could see it; this might force a change of plan upon him.

His aim was to decapitate the enemy command structure. Thus far he had been successful; the King of Rohan was dead, the Prince of Dol Amroth likewise, and the Prince's son dead or so badly injured as to be incapable of action. The Witch-King's next move, however, was less obvious. There were three large bodies of Rohirric horsemen in sight, rampaging unchecked across the battlefield and defeating all in their path, plus a smaller body some distance off that had not yet joined the fray. The Witch-King could not tell which contingent held the successor to Théoden, the logical next victim, and so chose the nearest and headed off in pursuit.

The division that he had selected as his objective tore through an Orc encampment, slaying and setting tents and siege engines afire, and then raced on toward a body of Haradrim cavalry. The Witch-King laboured in their wake. He was gaining on them only slowly; by the time he caught up the Riders would be engaged in combat with the Haradrim and his intervention would demoralise the Southrons almost as much as the Rohirrim. To pick out, and slay, the commander of the Riders would be difficult in the confusion. And if the wyvern suffered a further injury in the fray it might negate the beast's ability to fly altogether.

The Witch-King directed his steed into a climbing turn and abandoned his pursuit. He had decided upon a less mobile target. The Steward of Gondor.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Prince Imrahil has fallen!" came the cry. "His sons too! Dol Amroth is overthrown!"

Gandalf's face was grim as he heard the dire news relayed up through the city. "I knew tragedy would befall if I was not there to oppose the Witch-King," he said, "but you were right, Pippin, I could not leave Faramir to be burnt to death; as he would have been if not for you and Beregond. But now I must leave you. My small skills as a healer are outweighed by the need for me upon the field of battle. Stay with Faramir." With that Gandalf mounted Shadowfax and galloped off.

The Men bearing Faramir upon his bier carried him into the Houses of Healing. Beregond, in obedience to Gandalf's instructions, set off for the Citadel to report to the chief of the Guard what had transpired. Pippin followed behind those bearing Faramir and, upon entering the Houses, he saw a figure he had seen before.

The Princess of Dol Amroth stood there, in her grey healer's robes, her face a deathly white and her eyes huge in her face. "Father!" she cried. "What is this I hear? My father and my brothers slain? It cannot be!" And then Lothíriel set eyes upon Faramir. "Cousin! How is it that you lie as if close to death? Oh, woe!"

An older woman, also in grey, laid a hand upon Lothíriel's shoulder. "Have courage, my Lady," she said. "You have duties to perform. There will be time to mourn once we have seen to the injured."

Lothíriel's face contorted, her shoulders heaved, and she swallowed hard. "You are right, Ioreth," she said. "I must think first of the living." She made her way to Faramir, bent over him, and touched her hand to his brow. "I would say that he suffers from the Black Breath," she declared, "except that he has a fever and that is unusual in such a case. Whatever ails him is beyond my skill, alas. All that we can do for him at this time is to give him fluids, try to keep him from sinking into a deep sleep, and apply cold damp cloths to alleviate the fever. Take him into a room over there," she ordered, pointing, "and set him down upon a bed. Mistress Ioreth shall direct you. I shall send a Healer to him as soon as one can be spared."

"Are you not a Healer, milady?" asked one of the bearers.

"An apprentice only," replied Lothíriel, "and the cure for the Black Breath is not yet known even to our Master Healers. Yet we shall persevere. Now I must go. I am to assist in an amputation. Follow the directions of Ioreth."

"You've had a dreadful shock, my Lady," Ioreth observed. "Are you sure you're in a fit state to help with an amputation? Maybe you should sit yourself down and have a nice cup of tea."

"As you pointed out, I have a duty to the patients," Lothíriel replied. "I leave Faramir in your hands, Ioreth." She turned and departed for some destination deeper in the Houses.

The bier carriers accompanied Ioreth to the room indicated by Lothíriel. Pippin followed close behind. Ioreth turned, put her hands on her hips, and glared at him.

"Where do you think you're going, young…?" she began, and then raised her hands to her face. "Oh, my word, it is the _Ernil i Pheriannath_! I beg your pardon, my Lord. I thought you but a page."

"That's quite all right," Pippin said, "and there's no need to call me 'my Lord'. Gandalf – that is, Mithrandir – said that I was to stay with Faramir."

"Oh, well, if Mithrandir said it, then it's not my place to say no," said Ioreth. "But if you're to be here then you can make yourself useful." Ioreth watched as the carriers set the bier down, bullied them into assisting her in removing Faramir's oil-soaked garments, and then had them transfer him to the bed. As soon as the patient was settled into place Ioreth hustled the bearers out of the room. She then gave Pippin detailed instructions on how he was to use the cold cloths and the correct method of administering drinks to a semi-conscious Man.

She was very direct and forceful in her manner. Altogether she was a rather intimidating woman who reminded Pippin of a formidable cook who had worked at the Great Smials. No doubt she could be a very terror if anything threatened the orderliness of the Houses of Healing, as the cook had been if the order of her kitchen was disturbed, and Pippin felt that he wouldn't dare disregard her instructions.

"Now do as I say and Lord Faramir may yet be saved," Ioreth said. "I must go. More wounded Men could be brought in from the battlefield at any time. Remember, if Lord Faramir falls fully asleep before a Healer has examined him, you must wake him within two hours at the most!" She hastened out, taking Faramir's clothes with her for disposal or cleaning, and left Pippin alone with his charge.

The Hobbit sighed. He had not expected to be set a task that would trap him in one place for an unknown length of time. Still, it was in the interests of Faramir, and it was better than waiting outside Denethor's chamber for hours on end had been. He hoped that a Healer would come, and that there would be some food available for one who was neither a Healer nor a patient, before too long.

Only a few minutes had passed, and he had had no chance yet to become bored, when he heard a disturbance outside. At first he thought merely that another batch of wounded Men from the battle had arrived at the Houses of Healing. Then it registered on him that he was hearing screams, and cries of alarm, and even the clash of steel. Had the besieging forces burst through the broken gate and made their way up to the sixth circle? Yet surely they could not have penetrated so deeply into the city in the short time since word had come of the fall of Prince Imrahil. Could a few of the enemy's Men have managed to sneak in somehow, aiming to slay Denethor, and were now coming for Faramir? Or had Beregond, returning to the Houses of Healing after reporting to the Guard captain, been attacked by other Guards who regarded him as a traitor for his actions at the House of the Steward?

Pippin hesitated. He was reluctant to leave Faramir's side and yet felt that, if the commotion was indeed an attack on Beregond, he might be the only one who could resolve the matter without further bloodshed. And if it was an enemy force then they needed to be stopped as soon as possible. Pippin stood, drew his sword, and went out into the lobby.

A Man in the robes of a Healer, who Pippin had not previously encountered, almost bowled him over as he fled from the lobby into the inner rooms. Ahead of Pippin a soldier in the green garb of Pinnath Gelin, his left leg tightly bound with bandages and his left arm in a sling, limped forward with sword raised. Through the front window, beyond the soldier, Pippin could see a great dark shape moving. Something with wings, and a long sinuous neck, and snapping jaws.

And then in through the door strode a figure of dread. Black was his mantle, above it a crown of steel shone, but between robe and crown could be seen naught but twin gleams as of cruel eyes. The Lord of the Black Riders. He no longer wielded the fiery sword but held in his hand a mace of black metal.

"Where is Faramir, son of the Steward?" the Witch-King demanded.

Pippin recoiled in terror. He would have turned to flee but someone was coming up behind him and blocked his exit. Instead he dived under a table and crouched, shuddering, hoping that the Nazgûl would overlook him.

The wounded soldier from Pinnath Gelin limped forward. His sword shook in his trembling hand but still he advanced and struck a blow. The Nazgûl parried with ease.

"Fool!" the Witch-King growled. "No Man may hinder me." He swung his mace and dashed out the soldier's brains.

Shame began to supersede Pippin's fear. The Man of Pinnath Gelin had stood up to the Black Rider despite his injuries and all Pippin could do was hide. Yet what else could he do? He was only a Hobbit, after all...

"I am no Man, foul creature, and I shall hinder you," a clear voice rang out. "You have slain my father and my brothers. You shall not have my cousin while I live."

Princess Lothíriel stepped forward into the lobby. Her hands were bloody and she held a strange knife, a foot and a half long and curving forward, and there was blood upon the blade. An amputation knife, although Pippin did not recognise it as such, forged of the finest steel Gondor could produce and honed to an edge that would put a razor to shame.

"Aye, you will not come in here bothering the sick and the wounded," added another familiar voice. Ioreth, at Lothíriel's side, brandishing a broom. "Get away from here, you horrible thing!"

Pippin remembered Gandalf's words. '_Death comes for you, with a heart that knows no fear and a weapon that can cleave through anything, and terror walks at her side._' The Wizard had intended to refer, in ambiguous words, to Cierre but had he stumbled upon true prophecy by accident? Lothíriel seemed to know no fear, and that knife in her hand certainly looked as if it could cleave through anything, and Pippin had dubbed Ioreth a terror when the old battleaxe was giving him instructions…

"Death comes for you, with a heart that knows no fear," the Nazgûl-Lord muttered, his mace lowering, and then he laughed. "So the old fool was right, but not as he thought. You shall walk at the side of Terror indeed – as my bride." He cast aside his mace and his hand went to his belt.

Lothíriel stepped forward and swung the amputation knife. The Nazgûl's left hand shot out and caught Lothíriel's arm, stopping the blow short, and he laughed again. His right hand withdrew a dagger from his belt.

Pippin knew what the weapon must be. A Morgul-knife, which would leave its blade in the wound to turn the victim into a wraith, like the one that the Rider had used to stab Frodo at Weathertop. Horror flooded through him. But then resolve filled his heart and, slowly and stealthily, he began to move.

"Get your filthy hands off the Princess!" Ioreth cried, and she smote the Nazgûl with her broom. The Black Rider delivered a back-hand blow with the hand that held the knife, striking Ioreth with the pommel, and sent her flying back to crash into a wall and slump to the floor. Then he raised the knife ready to plunge it into Lothíriel's heart. She tried to pull herself free of his grasp but against his overwhelming strength her struggles were of no avail.

And Pippin scuttled out from under the table and did his level best to hamstring the Black Rider.

'_You are small, and your foes shall be taller,_' Boromir had told him, '_and so you must seek to take away their advantage of height. Strike first at feet, and knees, to bring them down to your level._' Pippin remembered his teachings and struck accordingly. Boots might turn a blade and so he avoided the ankles; he aimed, instead, for where he guessed the backs of the knees might be. And his blade, forged long ago in Cardolan when the Dúnedain warred against Angmar, bore runic enchantments wrought specifically for the doom of Angmar's sorcerer king. It sliced through undead flesh and severed the sinews as few other blades could have done. The Witch-King's right leg gave way under him, and he fell to one knee, and his strike at Lothíriel went astray. He released his grip on her arm as he sought to regain his balance.

At once Lothíriel struck, aiming just above the black robes, and the amputation knife sheared through the invisible neck. The steel crown fell with a clang, and rolled away, and the black mantle collapsed in on itself and fell, empty, to the floor.

Lothíriel dropped the amputation knife and it, too, fell with a clang. Tendrils of smoke began to curl up from its blade. "_Ernil i Pheriannath_," she said, looking down at Pippin. "You saved me." She swayed on her feet and raised her arm in front of her face. Her sleeve rode down to reveal black marks where the Nazgûl's fingers had gripped. "I… I…" she gasped. Then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed.

"Princess Lothíriel!" Pippin cried. He, too, was feeling dizzy and a chill was spreading from his arm to the rest of his body. "Help! Healers! We need aid." He glanced at his sword and saw that it was corroding away as if rusting at a thousand times the normal speed. He threw it down and called out again.

A grey-haired male Healer poked his head around the inner door, saw nothing threatening, and emerged into the lobby. "What has happened?" he asked. "What ails Lothíriel?"

"We slew the Witch-King," Pippin said, "but… the Princess…" He felt blackness closing over him and he sank to his knees.

"My patient!" cried the Healer. "We have taken off his leg and I must sew up the stump at once or he will surely die. I cannot help you. Where are the assistants?"

Then in through the front door burst Beregond of the Guard, a bloody sword in his hand, and three Men in the blue and silver of Dol Amroth.

"Peregrin!" Beregond cried. "We have slain the winged beast but where is its fell Rider?"

"We slew him," Pippin responded. "We…" A further wave of weakness hit him and he had to put a hand upon the floor to prevent himself from falling on his face.

"Healer!" shouted one of the Men of Dol Amroth. "We have borne our Prince Erchirion here and he is grievously wounded. You must…" His eyes fell upon Lothíriel and he cried out in shock and alarm. "Princess Lothíriel! This cannot be!"

"She…" Pippin began, and then his arm gave way, he fell forward, and everything went black.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Black leather parted and black skin flowered with red blood. Elladan saw the sword go in, saw Nathyrra fall, and his heart seemed to stop. He thrust swiftly to dispose of the Drow who faced him and rushed to her aid.

Her opponent turned to meet him. She was a slim Drow _elleth_ in leather armour of green trimmed with red, armed with twin swords; one of which was smeared with Nathyrra's blood. Elladan thrust – and his strike was parried, and the lightning-fast riposte came within a whisker of cutting his throat. Her other sword flashed out and he stopped it short of his groin only by the slightest of margins. He attempted a cut and again met a parry and riposte that tested him to his limits.

Elladan soon realised that he was in the fight of his life. Khareese had been superb, the most skilful opponent he had ever faced in deadly combat, but this _elleth_ was better. Blindingly fast, with a repertoire of techniques that negated his advantage of reach, she launched attacks that he could barely block and countered every attack that he tried. He tried to overpower her with superior might but she resisted him as if her strength equalled his own; he guessed that she was magically enhanced in some way but knowing that was of no help. He could find no way through her defences using conventional methods.

So he would try something unconventional. A move he had heard described by those who had witnessed Cierre at Helm's Deep. He allowed his left-hand sword to dip. She moved in to take advantage of the apparent opening.

And he lashed up, aiming for the underside of her right arm where it joined the body, and caught her before she could readjust. The false edge at the back of his blade sheared through flesh and bone and took off her arm an inch from the armpit. There was no immediate gout of blood, as the frost charm on the blade froze the blood vessels and had a temporary cauterising effect, but the shock stopped her in her tracks and her other sword fell from her hand.

She stood motionless only for a moment and then her left hand reached for her belt. Elladan remembered Khareese doing the same thing, when she had activated the Stone of Recall that had brought him along with her to this world, and he acted at once to prevent this _elleth_ from doing something similar and escaping to find healing. His right-hand sword swept across and took off her head.

At once Elladan went to the fallen Nathyrra. She was still alive, although barely, but he saw a froth of blood on her lips. The sword-thrust had pierced her lung. Elladan was not confident that even his most powerful healing spell would be enough but he would try. Before he could act two more Drow rushed upon him, one thrusting with a spear and the other swinging a spiked flail, and he was forced to defend himself.

Everyone else in the vicinity was engaged in combat and could not help. Valen was fighting two grey-skinned Dwarves, who wielded battle-axes with skill and might, and Prentice was using his staff to fend off a pair of Drow swordsmen; at such close quarters, especially against the magic-resistant Drow, his spells were of little use. Lavoera, the strange winged woman they had freed from captivity in the lair of the vampires, battled a massive being that resembled a Balrog. Incredibly, despite being only a fraction of the fiend's size, Lavoera was holding her own but seemed unlikely to achieve victory any time soon. And the Seer was the target of a concentrated attack by half a dozen Drow and her two bodyguards were fighting desperately to hold them off.

Then the Seer pointed a finger at the fiend and spoke a single word. The mighty creature shrieked, seemed to collapse in upon itself, and vanished. Lavoera, now without an opponent, flew to aid Prentice and bludgeoned his attackers senseless with two strokes of her mace. Prentice conjured up a great bear that ripped into the Drow targeting the Seer and tore them apart with its claws. Valen felled his Dwarven foes. And the Seer and her bodyguards hastened to Elladan's side.

Elladan slew the second of his opponents just before the Seer arrived. He turned to Nathyrra again. She was very still and he could not be sure that she still breathed.

"Fear not, Elladan Elrondion," said the Seer. "By the power of Eilistraee she shall be Healed." And, at those words, Nathyrra stirred and sat up.

"Thank you, Lady Seer," Elladan said. He glanced around. The main battle was taking place some distance away; this had been a surprise attack by a small elite force, ferried across the underground river, apparently aimed at taking out the Seer and Prentice. The assassins were all dead now, except for two who were fleeing pursued by a bear, and for a moment there was respite from the struggle. He turned back to Nathyrra.

"I thought I had lost you," he said, "and my heart became empty."

"It gladdens my heart that you say it," said Nathyrra, "but now is not the time. There are still foes to fight. At least I see that Sabal is slain." She extended a hand and Elladan took it and assisted her to her feet.

"The one who felled you? Yes, I slew her, and it was a hard-fought contest," said Elladan.

"A great deed," said Nathyrra, "for she was the champion of the Red Sisters and the right arm of the Valsharess. She owned a Belt of Giant Strength. You should retrieve it."

"Ah, so that is how she could match me for strength," said Elladan. He stripped a heavy belt of black leather from the body and buckled it about his own waist. A flail hung from the belt and he discarded it, having no use for the weapon, but he kept a pouch of potion bottles that hung at the opposite side.

"We were pushed back too far from the battle lines during that fight," Prentice observed. "My spells could not reach the enemy from here. We had best move forward."

"You should stay back, Mother Seer," said one of the bodyguards. "If you fall then they have won."

The Seer shook her head. "I am not the only focus for resistance," she said. "Zesyyr is as committed to opposing the Valsharess as am I. And Prentice is the one named in prophecy as he who will cause the Valsharess to fall."

"I still think Deekin had something to do with that," Prentice muttered, referring to the author of the book that gave an exaggerated account of his previous exploits. "Let us move, then," he added, in a louder voice, "before another Pit Fiend appears."

Too late.

Just behind the battle line, where the main forces of House Maeviir were gradually falling back into the city core before the advancing army of the Valsharess, a swirling vortex of energy appeared. Out of it stepped a Pit Fiend, twelve feet tall, wreathed in fire. It spread its great wings and made straight for Princess Zesyyr. She struck at it with her mace but to no avail. It reached out with its massive right hand, seized her around the waist, and lifted her, screaming, into the air.

Lavoera took off and hurtled toward the fiend. Before she could reach it a mage serving the Valsharess unleashed a barrage of magical missiles that homed in on the winged woman and seemed to paralyse her. Lavoera's flight became a downward spiral and she hit the ground hard.

Elladan ran to Zesyyr's aid, as did Nathyrra and Valen, but they were too far away to intervene. The Pit Fiend began to tear away Zesyyr's armour and opened its fanged maw wide. Around the monster a gap opened up in the Lith My'athar forces, as those near the fiend turned to flee, and the soldiers of the Valsharess poured through.

"Get the _fuck_ away from my daughter!" Matron Mother Myrune screamed out. She had taken almost no part in the battle, up to this point, but now she raced forward. Her flail whirled and smashed aside anyone who blocked her path; not just the enemy but fleeing members of her own House as well. At her side ran her scythe-wielding bodyguard.

Elladan and his colleagues became engaged against the elements of the invading army. Prentice, Valen at his side, ran to where Lavoera had fallen and protected her with spell and with flail. The Seer cast a spell that brought part of the retreat to a halt and inspired the Lith My'athar forces to turn and face the foe once more. Elladan and Nathyrra concentrated on killing.

Myrune smashed her flail into the leg of the fiend. It ignored her. Her bodyguard Tebimar achieved more with his scythe, carving a bloody gash into the fire-wreathed flesh, but received in return a kick that dropped him unconscious. The monstrous creature, delayed only momentarily, brought Zesyyr closer to its mouth.

"Eilistraee!" Myrune yelled. "Grant me the power to save my daughter and I will worship you!"

The Pit Fiend laughed and bit down upon Zesyyr's shoulder. She screamed out in agony, her voice reaching an impossibly high pitch, and then fell silent.

And Myrune shouted again but this time her voice carried a terrible power. A wave of energy burst forth from her and all around the forces of the Valsharess were knocked from their feet. Most quickly regained their footing but many stayed down, unconscious, and some lay in the stillness of death. The Pit Fiend dropped Zesyyr, screamed in its turn, and disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.

The breakthrough was stopped, the gap in the lines plugged, and the position was stabilised. Yet the battle still hung in perilous balance. The forces of the Valsharess had suffered a reverse but they had made great advances already and still outnumbered the defenders of Lith My'athar by three to one. And more Drow were arriving behind them, lining up along the inside of the inner city wall, some one hundred and fifty in number.

"Loose!" a male voice shouted. A hail of crossbow bolts flew, smashed into the rear of the invaders, and toppled them by the score. "Reload!"

The forces of the Valsharess reeled under the impact of this shattering volley. Caught by surprise they turned this way and that, uncertain of what to do or in which direction to face, and they were still in disorder when a second volley struck home. The ranks wavered.

"Jezz the Lame," Elladan cried, "and the forces of Vhaeraun. They have come!"

The Vhaeraunites loosed no third volley but instead drew swords and charged. Matron Myrune looked up from her fallen daughter and commanded the forces of House Maeviir to do likewise. The Seer urged on the worshippers of Eilistraee.

From the Lith My'athar Public House appeared Matron Mother Brizafae and her two loyal followers. "To me, House Deani," she shouted, swaying slightly on her feet, and waving a wine bottle as if it were a mace or sword. "Rise up against the Valsharess!"

And they did. The members of House Deani, conscripted into the ranks of the Valsharess when the House was conquered, turned on their erstwhile comrades. Some other unwilling conscripts, from Houses unconnected with Lith My'athar, followed their example. The army of the Valsharess began to dissolve in internecine struggle.

Two more Pit Fiends arrived, materialising in the middle of the battlefield, but neither had a chance to strike an effective blow. Prentice blasted one out of existence with a devastating spell and a priest among the Vhaeraun worshippers banished the other.

The remaining conscripts in the invading army threw down their arms. Only the Red Sisters and the Drow of House Kilath, of which the Valsharess had been Matron Mother before she seized the chance to build an empire, fought on. And they died.

Zesyyr lived. The Seer healed her of her injuries and of the venom from the fangs of the Pit Fiend. And the Drow Princess threw her arms about her mother and embraced her.

Elladan did not overhear the words they exchanged but his impression was that reconciliation between mother and daughter was complete. He was more occupied, at the time, with greeting Jezz the Lame.

"In the nick of time you came," Elladan said, "and I am glad indeed. The battle still hung in the balance when you tipped the scales decisively in our favour."

"And without loss to us," Jezz said, "which is pleasing. It seems that your plan to separate the conscripts from her loyal forces was successful. Well done. And your statement that there would be many comely girls here proves also to be correct – although they wear more clothing than you promised."

"It was a battle," Elladan said, "and armour was the appropriate dress. I suspect they will wear far less for the victory celebrations."

"We will," the Seer confirmed. She smiled at Jezz. "I greet you, follower of Vhaeraun, and I thank you for your aid. Whatever differences there are between us can be set aside. You are welcome to attend our celebrations; although they will be neither long nor extravagant, as we must consider taking the offensive against the Valsharess now that her forces in this area are depleted. But there will be feasting, and dancing, in Lith My'athar this day and, in accordance with our custom, we will disrobe."

Jezz gazed at her with frank appreciation evident in his expression. "That in itself will make our participation in this conflict worthwhile," he said, "for even clad in armour you are exceedingly fair to look upon."

The Seer laughed. "A bold warrior with a silver tongue," she said. "A dangerous combination and one that may take you a long way. You will not find us ungrateful for your assistance."

Matron Mother Myrune and Princess Zesyyr, walking close together and smiling, approached. Zesyyr opened her mouth to speak to Elladan but he did not hear her words. The city in front of him blurred and vanished from his view. He saw darkness, and felt a sensation as of travelling, and then he found himself at rest in another place.

He stood in a circular chamber under a domed roof, with two smaller semi-circular rooms opening off from it, in a sunken section in the centre of the main room. He was not alone; alongside him stood Nathyrra, Prentice, and Valen. A few Drow guards stood in the raised portion of the room, their crossbows aimed at the group, but Elladan paid them little heed after he saw the other denizens of the chamber.

In one of the annexes Elladan saw a strange figure chained to the wall; human-shaped but nine feet tall, scarlet of skin, and with legs articulated like those of a goat and which ended in hooves rather than feet. A pair of long curling horns adorned its – or his, for the creature was undoubtedly masculine – head and huge bat-like wings spread out from his shoulders. If the being's musculature was a true indication of his strength then he would be able to rip trolls limb from limb with ease. A remarkable sight, indeed, and yet it was the occupant of the other annexe who drew Elladan's attention.

In that ante-chamber he saw a throne and on it sat a Drow _elleth_. He knew at once, without needing to be told, that she was the Valsharess. She wore a spiked crown and armour that obviously had been designed with no thought at all given to practical defence. It rose only as far as her nipples, and was cut away at the midriff, and left her legs bare above the tops of her knee-high boots. Spiked pauldrons protected her shoulders but they were small and connected to the breastplate – nippleplate? – only by thin straps. The only function the armour could serve would be to make it impossible to make love without removing it – and it would take a braver _ellon_ than Elladan to desire sexual congress with the Valsharess. Her expression was so cruel and haughty that in comparison the sneer of Matron Mother Myrune seemed as welcoming as the smile of Bilbo Baggins when he greeted a dinner guest who had brought mushrooms.

The Valsharess had been staring into something in her lap but she raised her eyes and slipped the object into a pouch; a mirror, Elladan thought, from the glimpse that he had of it. "So," she said, "these are the adventurers responsible for inconveniencing me. Well done, dread Mephistopheles."

"I exist only to serve you, great Valsharess," the being in the opposite antechamber replied, in a deep and resonant voice. And if he was speaking sincerely then Elladan was a Hobbit.

"Oh, _fuck_," Prentice muttered. He raised a hand and unleashed a bolt of energy in the direction of the Valsharess. It reached only as far as the limits of the sunken area in which they stood before striking an invisible barrier and fizzling out.

"And they are no more prepossessing in person than in the Mirror of Shaori," the Valsharess said. "The famous Drogan's Apprentice turns out to be a mere callow youth. The Tiefling is nothing but a brainless brute. A Surface Elf exceptional only in his freakish height and some limited ability with a sword. And Nathyrra the traitoress."

"You murdered my mother, and my sisters, and slaughtered my House," Nathyrra said. "Did you really think you could buy my loyalty after that?"

"I expected you to be intelligent enough to recognise the futility of resistance," said the Valsharess, "but it is no importance. I had you transported here only so that I could watch you die. Dread Mephistopheles, kill them!"

"I have a better idea, great Valsharess," boomed the winged being. "Kill them yourself." He pulled himself free of his chains, effortlessly, and stepped forward.

"What are you doing?" the Valsharess cried. "I have Bound you. You serve only my will."

Mephistopheles laughed. "Did you really think that you could Bind an Archdevil? Everything has happened according to my plan. Years ago I planted an artefact where one day the young Apprentice would find it. It enabled him to escape from several perilous situations – but it is keyed to me. I created the prophecy that he would be your most formidable opponent to manipulate you into bringing him, and the artefact, here into my presence. And, as I intended, it set me free. You summoned me into this world, Valsharess, and now it is mine to conquer."

"Obey me!" shouted the Valsharess.

Mephistopheles laughed again. "I'm mildly grateful to you," he said. "I might even allow you to rule a city or two as my satrap – if you can prove yourself able to do more than sit on a throne looking like a cheap harlot." He snapped his fingers and, suddenly, the Valsharess and her guards were standing within the same circle as Elladan and his comrades.

At once Prentice cast a spell. It seemed to do nothing but when the Valsharess spoke the words of an answering spell nothing happened. Elladan guessed that Prentice's spell had been designed to remove her ability to do magic. The nearest guard struck at Elladan but this was no master swordsman in the league of Khareese or Sabal. Elladan slew the guard, and another and another, in three swift strokes.

The Valsharess dropped a hand to a flail that hung at her waist. Valen seized her wrist and prevented her from drawing the weapon. Nathyrra slew a guard with one sword and, with the other, delivered a thrust into the exposed area above the Valsharess' ornate but impractical armour. Prentice, meanwhile, snatched the pouch from the would-be conqueror's belt.

The rest was butchery. Deprived of magic, surrounded by experts at combat, the Valsharess stood no chance. She was strong, and seemed able to withstand wounds that would have dropped a troll dead on the spot, but eventually she went down and stayed down.

"As I expected," Mephistopheles declared. "You have rid me of that annoying woman, Drogan's Apprentice, and so I shall not slay you. Instead I will send you, and your associates, to my icy realm of Cania while I go forth to conquer Faerûn. I'd wish you a pleasant stay but that would, after all, negate the whole point of the Nine Hells."

Once more Elladan's vision blurred and he felt the sensation of movement. When it ended Elladan found himself on a battlefield. All around were figures that were all too obviously hostile. His sudden appearance in their midst took them aback and, for a moment, they did nothing but stare.

And then they attacked.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Cierre was crying.

She had long since lost count of how many she had killed. She stood with Legolas, and with a hundred bowmen of Lamedon, and loosed shaft after shaft for what seemed to have been hours on end. Teams of youths were employed in fetching arrows from the sacks and passing them to the archers to replenish their quivers. The longest shafts were supposed to be reserved for the Elves but by now Cierre was being given arrows that were two inches shorter than optimum. Either the helpers were becoming too fatigued to keep proper track or else she and Legolas between them had used up all eight hundred of the full-length arrows. Probably the latter; they had, after all, moved to new positions four times after killing every foe within range.

None of that had affected her. She could kill Orcs until the _rothé_ came home without even batting an eyelid. The swarthy Haradrim, resembling to her eyes the _Bedine_ of the Anauroch Desert, were to her nothing more than moving targets and she had toppled dozens of them from their saddles. She did feel a degree of pity for the black-skinned Men from Far Harad, who had fought with great courage despite their lack of armour, and a vague sense of kinship simply because their skin was almost as black as hers. When a regiment had surrendered, and the Men of Pelargir had seemed about to massacre them regardless, Cierre had intervened to ensure that the captives were spared. But had her intervention been too late she would have shrugged and returned to the fray without shedding a single tear.

But what she had been forced to do to the mammoths…

Those around her called them '_mûmakil_' or '_oliphaunts_'. Massive and intimidating animals they were, fifteen feet or more at the shoulder, each bearing on its back a war tower manned by as many as six warriors plus a rider mounted on the mammoth's neck. Their thick hides were invulnerable to arrows, even from the bows of Cierre or Legolas, except perhaps at point-blank range where the archer would be within reach of the grasp of the trunks or the sweep of the huge tusks. Those who went in close to thrust with spears, or to hack with axes, were either trampled or slain by the enemy footmen who clustered in the shadow of the monsters.

Cierre, however, had fought mammoths before. The Frost Giants of the Spine of the World rode them to war. Cierre had fought both against the Giants, on behalf of the city of Mirabar, and alongside them, during Gerdi Orelsdottr's campaign to make herself Queen of the Frost Giants, and these mammoths' were identical, save for being hairless and slightly larger, to the ones she knew. She knew their weakness.

They feared fire. And the towers on their backs were made of wooden planks.

Now the stench of burning hide, and disconcertingly pleasant smells of cooking, drifted across the fields. And the high-pitched squeals coming from the vast beasts as they ran hither and thither, trampling friend and foe alike in their agony and panic, wrenched at Cierre's heart. When one toppled and lay thrashing and writhing on the ground, its spinal nerves cooked by the blazing tower, Cierre burst openly into tears.

Gimli looked up at her, his heavy brows lowered in a frown; he seemed perplexed by her reaction. Legolas, however, laid a hand upon her shoulder. "It had to be done," he said. "I understand your sorrow. They are but innocent animals with no choice but to follow the orders of their riders. Take a moment to gather yourself, if you wish. You have achieved much already."

Cierre brushed away her tears with the back of her right hand and then laid it over the hand of Legolas. "Thank you for your understanding… _abbil_," she said. "Yet there is still much to do. I will be myself again in just a moment." Her hand trembled as she lifted it from that of Legolas and returned it to her side. "Perhaps I do need some time to rest," she admitted. "My arms ache as they have never done before."

"As do mine," Legolas agreed. "Even at the Battle of Five Armies I did not loose half this number of shafts. A moment's respite would benefit me as well."

"Let us move away from these flames," Cierre suggested, "for the smoke is unpleasant." They were positioned behind the blazing wreckage of several siege engines, which they had used as a screen against charges by the mammoths, but now the great beasts were dead or had fled far away.

Legolas nodded. "Indeed so," he agreed. "We need such shelter no longer." They walked away from the barricade, with the bowmen of Lamedon following their example, and Legolas surveyed the field. "We have come far from the Harlond," he said, "and have lost touch with the others of our Company. I suggest that we leave these Men to finish off what remains of the foe here and we set off in search of Aragorn."

"Aye," said Gimli. "I have had but little opportunity to swing my axe thus far in the battle. Perhaps in Aragorn's company I might have better luck."

"I would find that an acceptable course of action," Cierre said. "I hope Aragorn, and Elrohir, and Gárod have fared well in our absence." She slipped her quiver from her shoulder and counted the arrows. One of the youthful assistants ran to her with a bundle, from which she took a dozen shafts and replenished her quiver, and he handed the remainder to Legolas. "There are few remaining," Cierre observed, glancing at the now almost empty sacks. "We will have to make do with what we have."

"It should suffice," said Legolas. He gave a whistle and his horse trotted to his side; Cierre's horse followed close behind and went to her. She smiled, and scratched it between the eyes and stroked its neck; she would have liked to give it a treat but had nothing to offer. Legolas, who had thought further ahead than Cierre even despite the distraction of the sea-longing, had acquired a few carrots from storage barrels on the ship. He passed one to Cierre, and fed another to his horse Arod, and then leapt lightly astride. He reached a hand down to Gimli and assisted the Dwarf to mount behind him. "Farewell, Men of Lamedon," Legolas said. "You have been worthy comrades but you need us no longer. Seek out captains of your own people once these few foes are slain."

Cierre gave her horse the carrot; she liked this horse much more than the rather obstreperous one that had perished in the Paths of the Dead. She then leapt onto its back, just as lightly as had Legolas, and took up the reins. She was getting better at this whole horsemanship thing; another ten years, she thought, and she might be as good as the Rohirrim. Legolas set off across the plain and she followed.

"I see Aragorn's banner," Legolas announced, after a time. The pall of cloud that had hung over the area had dispersed by now, blown away by the fresh breeze, and it was a fairly bright day. Cierre's long distance vision was poor in the conditions, even though she had donned her somewhat battered hat, and she could not make out the banner until they had drawn much closer.

Eventually she could make out Aragorn, and the Ranger – she couldn't remember the Man's name – who bore his standard, and Elrohir, and Gárod, and the other surviving members of the Grey Company. They, together with a couple of éoreds and some horsemen in green livery, were harrying a fairly large body of enemy troops that was retreating north-eastward. Orcs, Haradrim, black-skinned Men of Far Harad, Variags of Khand, and bearded Easterlings with axes; some mixed together, some remaining in their separate units, but all headed in the same direction at more or less the same speed.

Legolas, Gimli, and Cierre rode up and rejoined their comrades. Their greetings were brief, for the running battle was continuing, but heartfelt nonetheless. Then the three added their contributions to the harrying of the foe.

All three chose to dismount; Gimli because it was the only way he could fight, the other two because it allowed them to make the best use of their bows. They picked off stragglers but Cierre found it tedious and questioned the necessity. Her inclination was to let those fleeing a battle, the result of which was no longer in doubt, to go rather than to risk taking casualties in an attempt to wipe them out. Then she remembered that this was a war rather than a battle. She thought back to her lessons at Melee Magthere; those who escaped here might have to be faced again in the future. Perhaps it was better to get rid of them once and for all, here and now, even if it did mean some extra risk and effort. And Aragorn generally knew what he was doing. She would follow his lead but she wasn't going to strain her already tired arms in doing so. Instead of fifteen shafts a minute she held back to a comfortable six a minute.

And then everything changed.

In the midst of the enemy host there was a sudden commotion. At first she thought that a fight had broken out amongst the disparate races, perhaps between some who wished to surrender and others who were determined to continue the retreat, but then she realised that it was one single figure who fought against all around him and somehow managed to hold his own.

Then Elrohir yelled "Elladan!" and spurred his horse into a furious charge.

Could it be? Cierre could not get a clear enough view to be certain but Elrohir was in a better position to see, had better eyesight in full daylight, and could be expected to recognise his twin brother. She increased her rate of fire at once, taking out those who posed the greatest threat to Elrohir, and Legolas at her side was doing the same thing. Gimli raised his axe and ran as fast as he could at the foe. Aragorn called for a general charge and everyone rushed forward. In moments everyone was embroiled in a frantic mêlée.

Cierre decided that there was too much risk, in the confusion, of loosing a shaft that struck friend instead of foe. Instead she slung her bow, cast Animalistic Power, and drew sword and axe as she ran toward the fray.

She whirled both weapons in a circle of death. Bearded faces appeared in front of her, scimitars or axes raised, and she hacked them down without pausing in her headlong rush. She was vaguely aware that Gimli was carving a path through the Orcs off to one side, Aragorn was cleaving heads with Andúril at the other, and Elrohir had dismounted and was laying about him with his twin swords with a speed and fury that matched her own. But ahead of her…

Elladan was wreaking sheer destruction. His swords swept through shields and armour as if meeting no resistance and those who faced him, be they Orcs or Men, fell like wheat before the reaper. His right-hand sword left a trail of flame behind it as it blurred through the air and his left gave off a cold gleam like that of Heleg Naur. The power behind his blows, evidenced by the way limbs flew and great gashes were carved into armoured chests, was awesome. No doubt, she realised, he had acquired powerful magic items during his time in Faerûn. Yet he was still in dire peril, for he was being attacked from all sides, and eventually a blow would strike home if only by sheer chance. Cierre redoubled her efforts, because she believed it to be her fault that Elladan was in such a position, and she would not be able to bear it if he died.

It was Gimli who made it to Elladan first, however, and he positioned himself to cover the Elf's rear. A moment later Elrohir reached his brother, and then Aragorn, then Cierre only fractionally ahead of a mounted Ranger whose name she could not recall. Then, as the enemies around them fell and the survivors wavered, the éoreds burst through the gaps that the champions had made in the ranks of the foe. And, at that, the enemy broke and scattered. What had been an orderly fighting retreat became, not even a rout, but hundreds of individuals each fleeing in a different direction. The Rohirrim, and the other riders in green, chased them down and slew them.

The Companions took no part in that hunt. Elrohir went immediately to his brother, and embraced him, and Aragorn embraced Elladan too.

"We feared you lost, brother," Aragorn said. "You were transported to Cierre's world?"

"I was," Elladan confirmed, "and I faced peril there, and battle, but I found friends and good companions there too. They have not appeared here with me? No, I would have seen them. Halaster said that I would be transported here, once the Valsharess was dead, but the others must have been sent to the icy realm of Mephistopheles."

Cierre winced. She had intended not to speak, leaving this moment of reunion to those who knew Elladan better, but spoke now. "Cania, in the Nine Hells?" she queried.

"Yes, that was it," said Elladan. "You know of that realm?"

"I do," said Cierre. "It is a place of torment. The place to which the souls of traitors go after their death. Any of the living sent there are doomed."


	9. Pretty In Pink

**Chapter Nine: Pretty In Pink**

The battlefield was littered with corpses beyond counting. The majority were orcs, probably numbering in the scores of thousands, but the human dead must have totalled several tens of thousands. They were not evenly distributed across the battlefield; some areas were almost free of corpses whereas in other places the dead were heaped in mounds. Rider-less horses by the hundred roamed across the fields and bands of the Rohirrim were engaged in rounding them up. Other Rohirrim, together with many who had come out from the city, were going among the fallen, searching for any who still lived, and gathering up the bodies of those who were of Rohan or of Gondor.

It was Aragorn's intention to set up camp in an area, not too far from the city walls, that appeared to be relatively clear of dead bodies. Cierre would have expected him to enter the city but apparently he was reluctant to do so at this time. It was his world, presumably he had his reasons, and Cierre was content to follow his lead.

The route taken by the re-united Grey Company went past a place where a regiment of the Haradrim, and perhaps a thousand orcs, had fallen. The corpses lay, literally, in heaps of intermingled Men and orcs. Cierre cast an eye over the scene of carnage and was, at first, puzzled. The Haradrim were lightly armoured and appeared to be specialist horse-archers. Not the correct type of troops to have been working in close concert with orcish heavy infantry. Then she observed the positions of the handful of fallen Rohirrim in the vicinity and the solution to the puzzle came to her.

The Men of Harad had been employing the horse-archer tactic of falling back at speed whilst peppering their pursuers with a hail of arrows. It could be a very effective tactic, as the Tuigan Horde of her own world had demonstrated when they conquered Shou Lung and came close to overrunning Western Faerûn, but it required plenty of open space. And, though these 'Pelennor Fields' were very big – twelve miles across, she'd heard someone say – the enemy host had been vast. It was inevitable that there would have been instances of units getting in each other's way. And, Cierre deduced, that had happened here with catastrophic consequences.

The Haradrim had collided with a mob of orcs, fleeing another squadron of the Rohirrim, and the pursuers had charged into the resultant tangle from both sides. From then on it had been a slaughter. The lightly-armoured archers had stood no chance against the mail-clad Riders of Rohan and had been cut down like wheat falling to the scythe. The dead horses must have numbered in the hundreds, despite the fact that the Rohirrim would have tried to avoid slaying the animals if at all possible, and Cierre guessed that the panic-stricken orcs, in their desperation, had tried to fight their way through the Haradrim. Whether they had, in their terror and confusion, failed to recognise their allies or whether they had thought there might be an escape route on the far side Cierre had no way of knowing. Whatever the reason, their efforts had been futile; there had been Rohirrim on all sides and orcs and Haradrim alike had been annihilated.

Cierre felt pity for the dead horses but none for their riders; only satisfaction that a dangerous enemy unit had been destroyed. The horse-archers could have posed a significant threat to her own company. If they were as skilled as the Tuigans they would have matched the bowmen of Lamedon for range and of course far outmatched them in mobility. Their bows… Oh. An idea struck her that was so obvious, in hindsight, that it should have been her first thought upon seeing the dead archers.

"_Jabbuk_ Aragorn," she called out, "may we pause a moment? These fallen foemen may have arrows I can use. My quiver is almost empty."

Aragorn's eyebrows rose as he brought his horse to a halt. "You have used all those in the sacks? I had thought them to be ample."

"Indeed we expended all those, and more," Legolas confirmed.

"They must have loosed four hundred shafts each, at the very least, and I did not see them miss," Gimli added. "The lads from Lamedon are skilled bowmen but they were in awe of our two Elves."

"I missed at least three times, when the sun was in my eyes," Cierre admitted, "and probably more, for in perhaps a dozen instances I could not see if I had hit my target or not. Also, twice I hit a foe other than the one at whom I was aiming."

"And how was I supposed to know that, lass?" said Gimli, with a chuckle. "I did not see you miss, as I said. For all that you complain about your eyesight in daylight I would say it is little, if any, worse than mine."

"I confess that I, too, missed three times," Legolas put in. "Twice when my target changed course after I had loosed, and once when an arrow from Cierre struck my target, and felled him, as my shaft was in flight."

"No doubt that happened in reverse, too," Cierre said, "and I may have counted kills as mine that rightfully belong to Legolas." She returned to the original topic. "So, Aragorn, may we scavenge for arrows?"

"Certainly you may," Aragorn said. "It is an eminently practical idea. In fact we all should gather up arrows, for the stocks in the city will be depleted, and those of us who need them not can pass them on to those who do. And keep an eye out for any amongst the fallen who yet live. The Rohirrim will have checked their own before moving on, no doubt, but they may have overlooked living but senseless bodies amongst the Haradrim. Any such that you find are to be given the best care we can manage, without using our limited supply of spells and potions, but guarded securely."

"And if we discover live Orcs?" Cierre asked.

Aragorn's eyebrows climbed slightly. "Make their deaths quick," he replied, his tone suggesting that he was surprised that she'd even asked the question.

Cierre nodded. It was the answer she had expected, in truth, but she'd wanted to be certain in case she had slit a throat and then found she had offended against local morality. "As you command, _Jabbuk_," she said, and dismounted.

The arrows she found were, as she had guessed, of the length she preferred and of excellent quality. The fletching was not of goose feathers, unsurprisingly if these Haradrim were desert dwellers, but the feathers of whatever birds they used – cranes, she would guess, although she'd never seen a crane and was going by a description – served the purpose equally well. To her delight Cierre found that her finds included, as well as the usual broad-tipped arrows, armour-piercing shafts with hardened bodkin tips. She filled her quivers with both types and then came upon a body who, judging by his gilded scale mail armour and his plumed helm, had been an officer. And his arrows were… fascinating.

The arrowheads were of high quality steel, superior to that commonly used for arrows, but that was only to be expected in the equipment of an officer of horse archers. The shafts were of black wood, a true black not just dark brown, close-grained and dense; they were very slim but weighed as much as arrows of the usual thickness. Zalantar wood, she thought, although that was far too scarce and expensive in Northern Faerûn to be used in arrows. Cierre estimated that these shafts would fly at least as far and as true as the arrows she had brought with her from Faerûn and which had been expended long ago. But it was the fletching that really caught her attention.

The feathers were pink. A rich, vibrant, salmon pink. Subtle variations in the hue indicated that it was natural, not dyed, but she had never seen nor heard of any birds of that colour. She'd seen jays that were a pinkish hue but nowhere near as vivid as this. The effect, against the black shafts, was absolutely beautiful.

"_Nind ph'ssin'urn_!" she exclaimed, a broad smile on her face, as she examined the arrows.

"That means 'they are beautiful'," Elladan informed his brother.

Cierre raised her eyebrows. How had Elladan learned Ilythiiri so quickly? She'd been in Middle Earth nearly twice as long as he'd been in Faerûn and she was still struggling with Westron. The Ring of Insight was helping her a lot, and she'd made good progress since the ambush in the Paths of the Dead, but she still would have difficulty carrying on a conversation of any length on any subject other than killing Orcs. Either Elladan had a remarkable gift for languages or he had had magical assistance. It was something she would ask him about later, she thought, but first she would look for more arrows.

The dead man's quiver was only half full, which was unsurprising, but Cierre expected that he would have had a reserve supply in his saddlebags. If his horse had survived, and had ran away rider-less across the battlefield, then she would have to hope that it had been gathered up by the Rohirrim and that circulating an offer of a reward would get her the arrows. However the dead body of a black stallion, that would have been a magnificent steed in life and exactly the kind of horse that a noble or a senior officer would ride, lay close at hand. It took only a moment to confirm that this was indeed the correct horse; the brow-band of the bridle was crowned with a plume of feathers, two of black and one of pink, matching the plume in the officer's shattered helm. Hopefully its packs would contain more of the beautiful arrows.

The horse was laying on its side, making the bags on that side inaccessible, and so Cierre ransacked those on the uppermost side. She found a quiver full of arrows but they were fletched with black feathers. The shafts were of the same black wood, and she would have been delighted with them if she hadn't seen the pink-feathered version, but now she was disappointed. "_Vith'ol_!" she exclaimed.

"That's _huitho_, as you might have guessed," Elladan translated.

Cierre hadn't known the Sindarin for 'fuck it!' before, as it had never come up in her interactions with the Surface Elves of Faerûn, but she made a mental note for future use. "Perhaps there might be more of the pink ones in the bags under the horse," she said hopefully.

"I'll give you a hand with that, lass," Gimli offered. "Even you can't move a dead horse on your own."

The twins stepped up to assist, too, and by dint of much shoving and heaving the four managed to extract the other saddle-bags. Cierre rummaged through them and discovered quivers containing more of the pink-feathered arrows. Much to her relief she found that the strongly-made containers had resisted the crushing weight of the horse and the arrows inside were undamaged. When she counted up her acquisitions she had seventy-four of the pink-feathered arrows and ninety-six of the black.

In addition she found a wallet containing spare feathers, of both types, no doubt so that damaged fletching could be repaired. There was no fletcher's knife or glue; presumably the dead man relied upon minions to carry out such menial tasks for him. This was mildly annoying to Cierre, who had left her own fletching kit – together with her hairbrush, her best clothes, and the only pair of actual shoes rather than boots that she possessed – back in her room in the Yawning Portal Inn in Waterdeep. Still, she could borrow fletching materials from Legolas or Elrohir again, if necessary; it was nice to have friends.

Her thoughts strayed into considerations of purchasing a new hairbrush, and finding a gown and shoes, once the city returned to normal after the lifting of the siege. She mentally shook herself, attributing her wandering mind to her exhaustion, and returned to the task at hand.

By now she had a considerable haul of arrows. She had learned, in the two major battles she had just been through, that no matter how many arrows you had it would never be too many. Still, what she had would suffice for now, and she turned her attention to other acquisitions.

A spare bow might be useful, in case anything happened to her Duskwood bow, and an officer's bow should be of good quality. She'd already seen the weapon during her search for arrows, in a bow-case that – luckily – was slung at the uppermost side of the dead horse, and now she went back and took the bow from the case. It was a recurve composite bow, much more compact than her Duskwood longbow, and it had survived the battle intact. She tried out its draw and winced as her strained muscles protested. A hundred and fifty pound draw, or thereabouts, she estimated; not in the class of her mighty Uthgardt bow, or of Legolas' great bow from Lothlórien, but still a formidable weapon. She returned the bow to its case, took it to her horse, and slung it from her saddle.

"A second bow, Cierre?" Legolas enquired, approaching with four quivers of arrows tucked under one arm.

"I would not wish to be without a bow if anything happened to my Duskwood weapon," Cierre answered. "Also, with this I may be able to learn to loose from the saddle – once I have mastered riding sufficiently to be able to control the horse with only my legs, as you and the Rohirrim can do."

"A good thought," Legolas said. "Our great bows are unwieldy for that purpose. I may follow your example, if I can find an undamaged bow without spending too much time in the search. I passed by several bows but did not think to take a closer look at them." He moved off, his eyes scanning the corpses, and Cierre, who had been about to mount her horse, changed her mind and decided to do a little more scavenging.

Back in Faerûn she would have gone through the dead men's possessions thoroughly, taking anything of value, but such behaviour seemed to be frowned upon in this world. She would restrict herself to taking weapons, as this seemed to be regarded as legitimate, and what she lacked at the moment was a spare sword. The dead officer's scimitar was close to his outstretched hand, point downward in the soil and sunk deep, and she pulled it free and checked the blade for damage. It was covered in mud, of course, but once she had wiped it clean the steel was unmarred and the edge still keen. She tested its balance and then ran through a few moves. The scimitar was a single-edged weapon, ideal for cutting and slashing, but her signature move of the upward cut to the underside of an arm would be impossible without gripping the scimitar upside-down. It was ill-suited to conventional thrusts, too, but the Drow technique of rolling the wrist and delivering an inward thrust to the armpit would work very well.

"You have used a scimitar before, I see," Elrohir commented.

"Only in practice," Cierre replied, "never in real combat. Drizzt Do'Urden, who preceded me into exile in the surface world, uses a pair of scimitars. He is reckoned to be the greatest of all Drow swordsmen, and one of the best in all of Faerûn, and I thought to emulate him by experimenting with scimitars. I soon decided that they did not suit my style, however, and went back to a straight sword. Yet I deem that this scimitar will serve very well for mounted combat."

"No doubt it will," said Elrohir.

"If this 'Drizzt' you mention is the best of all Drow with a sword he must be a master indeed," said Elladan. "Khareese, who led those who attacked us on the Paths of the Dead, was superb. And Sabal, whom I slew in Lith My'athar, was better still. It was only by the narrowest of margins that I prevailed."

"Sabal is unknown to me," Cierre said, "for I live in the far North and know little of the Drow in the vicinity of Waterdeep." She now had no difficulty in telling the twin Sons of Elrond apart; Elladan wore a broad black belt, a Belt of Giant Strength if she was not mistaken, and a Faerûnian amulet hung at his neck. Also one of the spaulders of his armour had changed hue marginally and no longer was a perfect match for those of his brother. "I would be greatly interested in hearing of your experiences in Faerûn," she went on, as she fastened the scimitar's scabbard to her saddle behind the bow-case.

"I was about to recount those experiences to my brother," Elladan told her. "He has just finished informing me of what transpired here during my absence and now it is my turn. If you ride alongside us you can listen to my tale."

"I would like to hear of Faerûn, too," Gimli put in. "I will ride behind you for a change, Cierre, if that is acceptable to you. It will give Legolas' horse a rest from the double burden and let me hear as Elladan tells his tale."

Before she had come to Middle Earth Cierre would never have agreed to let anyone ride behind her. But this was Gimli, who had put himself into dire peril for her sake, and whom she had come to trust more than she would have thought it possible to trust anyone. "Of course, _abbil_," she responded, smiling at the Dwarf. "I shall reposition my bags so that they do not obstruct your legs."

"_Abbil_ means 'trusted friend'," Elladan translated.

"So I had gathered," Elrohir said, "and I have noticed that it is not a term Cierre uses lightly."

"Indeed so… _abbil_," Cierre confirmed, and received in return a warm smile from Elrohir. She moved the scimitar so that it hung in front of the bow-case rather than behind, found a place to hang her bag so that it left space for Gimli, and then mounted the horse. She helped Gimli climb up behind her and a minute or two later the Company was in motion once more.

Elladan, as he had promised, began to recount his adventures in Faerûn. Cierre listened, fascinated, but before long she began to wish that the ground would open and swallow her.

When Elladan had first reappeared she had blurted out that Elladan's companions in Faerûn faced certain doom after being banished to Cania. But as Elladan's tale progressed Cierre learned that those companions had become Elladan's close friends and one, the Drow female Nathyrra, a lover. Cierre thought of how she would feel if she was told that Gimli, Aragorn, Legolas and Éowyn had been transported to a realm where their deaths were inevitable and bitterly regretted her hasty words. She could not take them back and any retraction she made would come over as insincere. All she could do was to feel horrible and listen to the rest of the account without speaking.

Not that Elladan appeared to be unduly distressed by her statement; he showed no visible signs of concern as he continued his tale. However, as Cierre had learned, the Elves of Middle Earth seemed to pride themselves on minimising displays of emotion and were much harder to read than those of Faerûn. He might well be desperately anxious inside and merely hiding it well.

"And so, brother," Elladan went on, "I now have a belt that increases my strength, my armour has been magically strengthened, and a skilled Drow smith placed enchantments upon my swords. One has a flaming blade and the other is charmed so that it, like Cierre's sword, freezes where it hits. If you exchange one of your swords for one of mine then both of us will have one that is enchanted."

"A good idea," Elrohir agreed. "I will take the left-hand one, then." He detached one of his scabbards, Elladan did the same, and they exchanged swords. The twins' swords were a matched set, any differences between them so slight as to be imperceptible to the eye, but centuries of wear would have moulded the grips to fit left and right hands.

"That is the icy blade," Elladan said. "Even a glancing blow will cause numbness, and slow down an enemy's moves, and I have seen armour crack and a foe's blade shatter from the sudden chill."

"Useful, indeed," said Elrohir. "I thank you, brother. I shall put this blade to good use against the servants of the Enemy. I can see why Cierre values her sword Heleg Naur so highly."

Cierre had not observed the steel-shattering property in Heleg Naur; the blade went through armour as easily as it could cut through parchment and she didn't use it for parrying. For that she used her axe, Frostreaver, and with it she had shattered enemies' swords several times. Whether that had been through the sheer force of impact or due to the axe's frost charm was a question that had never occurred to her. Of course Frostreaver, although a formidable weapon in its own right, was nowhere near as highly enchanted as was Heleg Naur. In fact she had never encountered any weapon that could match her remarkable sword… The thought triggered a memory. Her mouth dropped open and she manoeuvred her horse closer to that of Elladan.

"Elladan," she said, urgently. "I have remembered something that contradicts what I told you about Cania. Your friends' situation may not be as dire as I feared."

Elladan's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. "Go on," he said.

"It concerns my sword," Cierre explained. "I took it from a Drow warrior I slew in Undermountain."

"The husband of Khareese," Elladan said.

Cierre suppressed a wince. Her actions had caused Khareese, seeking vengeance, to pursue her even between worlds and thus led to the deaths of Halbarad, Baldheort, and nine others of the Company.

"I saw that it was a remarkable sword," she went on, "and when I returned to Waterdeep I asked Argali the weapon merchant if she knew of its history. She told me that it was one of a set made by the monks of Candlekeep for a war two hundred years ago. I doubted this, however, as I did not believe _rivvin_ monks could make such a weapon. I sought a second opinion from the wizard and lore-master Sobrey. He informed me that it was the Frozen Flame, a blade forged by the great Drow smith Rizolvir, and that its icy cold came from the hot steel being quenched in a block of ice brought from the frozen wastes of Cania. I could not decide which to believe; Argali's account seemed too mundane, but Sobrey's seemed too fanciful. Yet if his tale is true then it means that there must, indeed, be a way for mortals to visit Cania and return unharmed."

Elladan's expression remained impassive. "May I examine your sword?" he requested.

"Of course," Cierre said. She unbuckled Heleg Naur and handed it over.

Elladan scrutinised the weapon's pommel, hilt, and cross-guard. Suddenly his face lit up with a broad smile. "I recognise this rune," he said, pointing at the side of the cross-guard. "The maker's mark of Rizolvir."

"Then Sobrey's tale is the true one," Cierre said, "and it would seem that indeed there is a way for mortals to leave Cania."

"And if there is a way then Prentice will find it," Elladan said, the smile still on his face. "I can be confident that I shall see Nathyrra again."

"I take it that Prentice indeed lives up to his reputation," Cierre commented. "I had considered offering to team up with him but I was worried lest his accomplishments in reality did not match up to those claimed in the book about him."

"A book that caused him great embarrassment, I gather," Elladan said. "I never saw the book, and so cannot speak for its veracity, but certainly the deeds I saw performed by the wizard who styles himself 'Prentice' need no embellishment. A most worthy and valiant comrade, indeed, as are Nathyrra and Valen."

Cierre felt another stab of guilt. "Perhaps I was wrong," she said. "Had I joined with him, and perhaps the lady bard and the barbarian who travelled on the ship with me from Neverwinter, then I would not have been driven into the portal that brought me to Arda. Then Khareese would not have pursued me here and Baldheort, Halbarad, and the others would not have been slain on the Paths of the Dead."

"Baldheort would have perished at Helm's Deep if not for your arrows, lass," Gimli put in from behind her.

"And the healing spells you taught us have saved many lives," Elrohir added.

"I would say that your decision worked out for the best," Elladan said. "You have saved lives here, as my brother and Gimli say, and my transportation to Faerûn was, I think, providential. It led to me meeting Nathyrra, for one thing, but also I believe that my part in the defeat of the Valsharess may have been significant. I doubt not that you could have duplicated my feats of arms, Cierre, but the plan that I conceived to recruit allies to the defence of Lith My'athar was regarded as so outlandish that I suspect it would not have occurred to you."

"What was this plan?" Cierre asked.

"I requested aid from the leader of a band of Drow who worship Vhaeraun," Elladan told her. "He was suspicious at first but I talked him around. His forces arrived in the nick of time and turned the tide of the battle in our favour."

Cierre's eyes widened. "You are correct that I would never have thought of such a plan," she agreed. "Vhaeraun and Eilistraee are implacable foes and their followers likewise. I would have expected outright refusal at best and treachery from the Vhaeraunites at worst. That they responded with genuine aid is quite beyond what I could have imagined. In fact I am surprised that Vhaeraun did not intervene to forbid it."

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Vhaeraun, the god of male Drow, tensed as his sister Eilistraee approached. He had to admit it was unlikely that she would launch a treacherous attack upon him – such an action would be completely out of character for her – but it was possible that, if she had learned of his own plans to attack her, she might regard a pre-emptive strike as an acceptable counter-move. And, although she did not possess the sheer physical might of some deities, when it came to skill with a sword no entity in all the Realms could match her. She was a truly formidable opponent and if she attacked he would be hard pressed indeed.

Instead she smiled at him. "I have come to thank you, brother," she said. "The timely arrival of your followers at Lith My'athar may have saved the city. The battle hung in the balance before they came and tipped the scales."

Vhaeraun relaxed. "I cannot claim credit for that," he admitted. "It was the _Darthiir_ from another world whose persuasive arguments swayed Jezz the Lame into going to their aid. I issued no commands."

"Yet you did not forbid it, as I feared you might," Eilistraee said, "and for that you deserve thanks."

"My Dogmas already say that my followers should assist those of yours who are Rogues," Vhaeraun said, "and Nathyrra follows that profession – as, indeed, do some others within Lith My'athar. And there were some few of my own worshippers there too. To forbid Jezz to lead a relief force would have been… wilfully perverse."

"And yet I feared that you would do just that," Eilistraee said. "I did you an injustice. Perhaps it might not be unfeasible for us to allow our followers to co-operate further."

"Indeed so," said Vhaeraun. "You have gained converts in Lith My'athar, as the leaders of House Maeviir have sworn themselves to you, but the males of the House may be reluctant to follow suit. Will you instruct your people not to interfere if mine attempt to win them as converts?"

"Of course," Eilistraee answered, with a smile. "In fact, if our factions are to co-operate there, I shall instruct the Seer that she and hers are not only not to interfere but are to actively support your priests in this undertaking. If House Maeviir were to be composed exclusively of our followers, with all of our mother's worshippers converted, both of us would benefit."

Vhaeraun's eyebrows rose above the edge of his mask. "You surprise me."

"It makes sense," Eilistraee said. "A House made up of my worshippers and yours would be far stronger, and less likely to suffer from internal strife, than one in which a substantial portion still worshipped our mother. The differences between us are not so great that our followers needs must war upon another."

"And indeed they have not, at least since the fall of the Dragon's Hoard band eleven years ago," Vhaeraun said, "and their assault upon the Eilistraeeans of the Promenade was driven by greed, and a personal vendetta, rather than any command of mine. Are you proposing a peace between us?"

"Why not?" Eilistraee said. "We both seek the same ends, and both desire the well-being of our people above all else; our disagreement is only over the means by which that should be achieved. And, if I am not mistaken, a goodly number of your followers – perhaps as many as a third – follow a version of your Dogmas with which I can find little fault. If we war against each other we waste efforts that could be more productively employed in our mutual struggle against our mother."

Vhaeraun's eyebrows climbed still higher. "I never thought to hear such a proposal from you," he said, "but it is, as you say, logical. And, in that case, why not go further? Let us be allies, at least in those areas where other commitments do not make it impossible. Our forces, united, can hold Lith My'athar. And several of those cities taken by the Valsharess are now so weakened that they are vulnerable. I think particularly of Eryndlyn."

Eilistraee drew in a sharp intake of breath. "The city beneath the High Moor," she said. "The last remnant of Miyeritar."

"Exactly," Vhaeraun said. "My followers there are planning to ally with the worshippers of Ghaunadaur to drive out the remaining Lolth-worshippers. Your people, if there are any in the vicinity, would be much more acceptable as allies."

"I shall consider this, brother," said Eilistraee, "but first we must deal with the threat that still hangs over Lith My'athar."

Vhaeraun nodded. "Mephistopheles," he said. "A foe too strong for my warriors, or your priestesses, to oppose with any hope of success. We would have to intervene directly and, with the limitations we must accept on our actions within the Prime Material, neither of us could prevail alone."

"But if we combined our powers…" Eilistraee said.

"I agree," Vhaeraun said. "I shall add my power to yours that we might prevent Mephistopheles from reaching Lith My'athar."

"And the Promenade?" Eilistraee asked.

"I would have thought the Promenade's defences to be sufficient," Vhaeraun said, "but it would do no harm to make certain. I agree… on condition that your followers assist mine in securing Eryndlyn."

"If you are lifting the prohibition on your followers associating with mine," said Eilistraee, "then I shall give the necessary orders."

A period of negotiation followed, each proposal being met with conditional agreement, and at the end the two deities, who had been at odds for fourteen thousand years, had settled most of their differences and agreed to work together.

"So we are allies now," said Vhaeraun. "A remarkable development, one that I could not have foreseen, but one which I believe shall benefit us both." He had scrapped his plan to attack Eilistraee; it was pointless now, offering only slight gains in return for putting himself at considerable risk, and for them to cooperate was a much more advantageous strategy.

"Indeed so, brother," said Eilistraee, "and I am well pleased. I, too, could not have foreseen this. We owe it to the human mage Prentice, and his companions; especially to the _Darthiir_, Elladan, who came from another world."

"And who has been returned there," Vhaeraun said, "and so we cannot reward him as he deserves."

"The others are still here," Eilistraee said, "although they have been transported to the hellish realm of Cania by the machinations of Mephistopheles. It would be only right for us to aid them in any way we can."

"Our ability to influence events in the Hells is limited," Vhaeraun said, "but I agree we should do what we can. Let us see how they fare." He conjured up a scrying crystal and both deities peered into it.

Vhaeraun's eyebrows rose. "It could be that our aid is not required," he said. "Prentice may be young even by the standards of the _rivvin_, and lacks the power of, for instance, Halaster or Khelben Blackstaff, but it would seem he makes up for it in resourcefulness."

"Indeed so," Eilistraee agreed. "He has the Mirror of All-Seeing. I wonder how he managed to acquire it?"

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"I detected powerful magic from her pouch," Prentice related, "and so I grabbed it in case it was something she might use against us. This wasn't what I expected but it might be the best thing I could have found." He held up a small mirror in a gilded frame.

"W-w-w-ill it k-k-keep us warm?" Nathyrra asked, through chattering teeth. "This c-cold is going to k-k-kill us." They stood on streets of ice, in the middle of a small town that was surrounded by seemingly endless ice fields, and the temperature was well below freezing. Flurries of snow, driven by a biting wind, lashed at their exposed skin.

"Sorry, I should have thought of that," Prentice said. "I know a cantrip that will warm you." He touched Nathyrra's forehead and spoke an arcane phrase. "How about you, Valen? Do you need warmth?"

"My fiendish blood gives me some resistance," Valen said, "but the cold will weaken me eventually. I will accept your aid." He stood still as Prentice cast the cantrip upon him. "I take it you are already protected?"

"My apprenticeship was in Hilltop, in the Nether Mountains, far to the north of Waterdeep," Prentice said. "One of the first spells Drogan taught me was that cantrip. I cast it on myself, almost without conscious thought, as soon as we emerged into this ice-bound waste."

"Thank you, Prentice," Nathyrra said, no longer shivering. "I wouldn't mind learning that cantrip myself but it can wait. What does the mirror do? I would guess that it is a scrying device."

"Indeed so," Prentice confirmed, "and an exceedingly powerful one. The Mirror of All-Seeing."

"You think it can show us a way out of here?" Valen queried.

"Assuming that there is a way, then certainly," Prentice said. "It is reputed to be one of the most powerful scrying devices in all Faerûn and, if the commands are properly worded, there is almost nothing that it cannot reveal."

"Show me Elladan, please," Nathyrra requested. "I would guess that he was returned to his own world upon the death of the Valsharess, as Halaster decreed, but to have that confirmed would put my mind at rest."

"Of course," Prentice said. "I'm fairly sure Halaster's spell sent Elladan home but it would be good to have confirmation. This isn't a very convenient spot for a viewing, however, and I suggest we find somewhere out of the snow. And, if I'm not mistaken, that building over there is a tavern."

"A tavern in the Hells?" Nathyrra raised her eyebrows. "Why would there be a tavern here?"

"This looks like a mining town to me," Prentice replied. "And, where there are miners, there is a demand for taverns. Even when the miners are devils."

"A good point," said Valen, "but might we not be attacked as soon as we enter?"

"There are devils all around and they have not attacked," said Prentice. "I suspect that they have no orders concerning us and therefore will leave us alone in case they unwittingly spoil some plan of Mephistopheles'. The ones in the tavern should be no different."

And, as he had predicted, they entered the tavern without incident. The devils at the surrounding tables stared at them, showing obvious interest, but made no hostile moves. Devils weren't the only customers, rather to the surprise of Prentice and his companions; a dozen Githzerai, humanoids from another plane of existence, occupied some of the tavern's tables and a living man, clad in the style of a professional gambler from Waterdeep or Baldur's Gate, sat alone at another table.

Nathyrra insisted that they sit at a table in a corner, so that she and Prentice both could sit with their backs to a wall, and before they sat down she checked the walls to ensure that there were no secret doors or openings through which projectiles could be fired at them. Only when she was satisfied did she allow the others to take their seats.

"I would say that you're being excessively cautious," Prentice said, "if it wasn't that we're in the Hells."

"I'm a Drow assassin," Nathyrra said. "These are just the routine precautions I'd take anywhere. I've seen too many people die through not taking them – some of them at my hand."

"A well-made point," Prentice said. He opened his mouth to say more but broke off as a serving wench approached.

"What can I get you?" the wench asked. She was an Erinyes devil, six feet tall and slim of build, and the traditional barmaids' apparel she wore seemed out of place on her. She should have been wearing an elegant gown, with jewellery at her neck and on her wrists, or else have been clad as an adventurer in breeches and brigandine.

"You have food suitable for mortals?" Prentice queried.

"Of course," said the Erinyes. "We have quite a few Githzerai pilgrims as customers, after all. I must admit it's a fairly limited selection. Deep rothé, roast or grilled, or fish, fried or baked, and we have no vegetables. There are no seasonings palatable to humans other than salt. We do have bread, made with flour imported from the Prime, and ale."

"I'll have the roast rothé with bread and ale," Prentice said, "assuming, of course, that you accept the coin of Waterdeep."

"It's only the gold content that matters here," said the Erinyes, "and Waterdeep coin is as good as any. I'll be happy to take your order."

"I'll have the fried fish," said Nathyrra. "I take it you don't have mushrooms?"

"They don't grow on ice," the Erinyes replied. "If you want anything with your fish it will have to be bread."

"Bread, then," said Nathyrra, "and ale."

"I'll have what Prentice is having," said Valen.

"Prentice? Drogan's Apprentice?" The Erinyes' eyebrows rose. "He who slew Kel-Garas and Huerodis? I have the book that relates your adventures. Would you sign it for me?"

"Sorry, but no," Prentice said. "I rather think that signing anything in the Hells might be a bad idea."

The Erinyes grinned. "You can't blame me for trying," she said. "That will be thirty-six gold pieces for the meals and drinks. Payment in advance."

Prentice raised an eyebrow but resisted the temptation to say that the meals were hellishly expensive. No doubt the Erinyes would have heard similar remarks a thousand times before. He handed over the coins without comment and the serving wench headed for the kitchens.

As soon as she had departed Nathyrra spoke. "Now you can show me Elladan," she said.

"I would say that searching for the way out is more urgent," said Valen. "Elladan will be back in his own world, safe and sound, whereas we are trapped in Cania."

"We are only assuming he has been returned to his world of Arda," Nathyrra said. "It may be that he is here too, only in some other part of this domain, and he might be in need of rescue. Even if he is in his own world that does not mean he is safe. He told me that a Dark Lord, who sounds very like a Fallen Solar from his description, is engaged in a war of conquest against the alliance of Good-aligned nations they call the Free Peoples. And the Dark Lord is winning."

"I'm in favour of looking for Elladan first," Prentice said. "Apart from anything else it will give me practice in controlling the mirror before we start looking for the way out. I suspect the commands for such an enterprise will need to be very precise. Whereas locating Elladan should be relatively simple – as long as the mirror is capable of scrying across planes and between worlds. Give me a moment to work out the correct commands and then I shall seek out Elladan."

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Cierre held a potion bottle in her hand. "This one is the sleep poison used on Drow darts. If it enters the bloodstream unconsciousness follows in seconds." She set it down upon the makeshift table that they'd improvised from pieces of a wrecked siege engine. "Not of great use now."

"I can see a use for it," said Elrohir. "There will still be a need for surgery, even with the spells and potions we now have, and operations such as the removal of an embedded arrow are much easier if the patient can be safely rendered senseless. We have sleeping draughts for that purpose, of course, but they will not last long with the great number of wounded Men we must treat. And some may have difficulty swallowing and a potion that can be injected will be more suitable than a draught that must be drunk to take effect."

Cierre nodded. "I had not thought of that," she said. "I confess I am far more used to inflicting injuries than treating them. My healing spells were used on myself, more often than not, rather than on comrades. And when I had to remove arrows from my own flesh there was no way I could put myself to sleep first."

"Indeed so," said Elrohir, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Nathyrra, too, was accustomed to treating her own hurts and unused to having comrades to whom she could turn at need," Elladan said. He opened his mouth to continue but broke off as the tent flap opened and two figures entered.

Aragorn came in first with Gandalf close behind him. "Pack up those potions, brothers, for we will be going into the City in haste," Aragorn said. "Our skills are required there most urgently."

"Cierre has not yet finished identifying those potions that I acquired immediately prior to my departure from Faerûn," Elladan said.

"Then she should accompany us and complete the task at the Houses of Healing," Aragorn said. "If that is acceptable to you, Cierre?"

Cierre suppressed a sigh. She was bone-weary and wanted nothing more than to find a cot, curl up, and go to sleep until dawn. Yet she could not bear to disappoint Aragorn. "Of course, _Jabbuk_, I shall be pleased to assist," she answered.

"I had thought you loath to enter the City at this time, lest your presence provoke Lord Denethor and result in strife," Elrohir said to Aragorn.

"Denethor is dead," Aragorn replied.

"He took his own life in pride and despair," Gandalf added, his face grim, "and came near to taking Faramir with him. Now Faramir lies gravely ill. The most urgent cases for your attention, however, are those who slew the Lord of the Nazgûl when he attacked the Houses of Healing. Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, the Healers' helper Ioreth… and Peregrin Took."

"Pippin?" Cierre straightened up, took up the potion pouch, and began to pack away the vials in as great a haste as she could manage without risking breakages. Her own tiredness was forgotten. She had not known the Hobbit long enough to count him as a friend but she had observed the great affection for him displayed by Gimli and Legolas. That made him important to her too.

"Yes, Pippin," said Gandalf. "He is smitten with the malady, known as the Black Breath, that strikes those who have been in close proximity to the Ringwraiths, and Pippin's case is worse for he put steel to that deadly creature. As did the Princess Lothíriel. Both of them lie close to death. And many others suffer from… the same… affliction…" His voice trailed off, he narrowed his eyes, and he stared at the roof of the tent.

Cierre glanced up, saw nothing, and took it that Gandalf was merely deep in thought. "This 'Black Breath' sounds like the effects of a powerful Undead being's life-draining," she said. "That being the case, Potions of Restoration should be a sovereign cure."

Elladan nodded. "So it proved when I, and my comrade Valen, were wounded as we fought the vampires in their lair. A potion each restored us to our full strength. Likewise when we freed the winged being Lavoera from her prison, where the vampires had been feeding on her for many days, a single potion brought her back to health and…"

"Hush!" Gandalf interrupted him. The Wizard held up his hand. "I sense eyes upon us. We are being watched."

"The Enemy?" Aragorn queried, his voice a growl and his shoulders tensed.

Gandalf's brow creased and he pursed his lips. "Hmm. No. I feel no malevolence. Rather, in fact, do I feel… friendship. Even, perhaps… affection."

"The Lady Galadriel, then," said Aragorn, "watching us in her Mirror."

"No, I think not. The presence that I perceive is a stranger to me. More than one person observes us, I feel. If I concentrate I may learn more." Gandalf stood silently for half a minute, eyes still narrowed, and then he spoke again. "A young Man, scarcely more than a youth, but with an air of power about him. He sits at a table with a staff, like unto that of a Wizard, propped against his chair."

"Prentice!" Elladan exclaimed. "A friend indeed. And a Wizard in truth, I deem, even though he is a Man and not of the Istari."

"My brother was transported to Cierre's world as we traversed the Paths of the Dead," Elrohir explained to Gandalf. "He returned to us only hours ago."

"I met Prentice there and he became both ally and friend," Elladan took over. "At the same time as I was being sent back to Arda Prentice, and my other comrades, were transported to a hostile realm. I have faith in their abilities but it is good to have confirmation that they are safe – at least for the moment."

"I perceive a maiden of Cierre's people," Gandalf said, "peering into the scrying device alongside your friend Prentice."

"Nathyrra!" Elladan exclaimed, his face lighting up. "Can you give her a message from me? Tell her that I shall find a way back to her, as soon as the threat from Sauron is lifted, no matter what it takes."

"She can hear you directly, I am sure," Gandalf said. "There is no need for messages to be passed through me. However I think it advisable that they should break off from their scrying. The Eye is ever probing and searching and it would not be good if the Enemy perceived your friends. And, also, we must be off to the Houses of Healing without further delay."

"I will pass on your warning," Elladan said. "Prentice speaks little Sindarin, although Nathyrra speaks it fluently." He spoke briefly in the Common Tongue of Faerûn, incomprehensibly to all but Cierre, and concluded with a fond farewell to Nathyrra in Ilythiiri.

A few seconds later Gandalf nodded his head. "The window has closed," he said. "Now, let us not tarry further. To the Houses of Healing!"

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The ascent to the topmost levels of the city of Minas Tirith was long and winding. Each level was separated from the next by a wall and the gateways between levels were at opposite sides of the city. There were narrow stairways passing through the walls, to provide more convenient access for pedestrians, but they had been bricked up prior to the siege; consequently those entering the city, whether resident, invader, or legitimate visitor, must follow a long and winding course. It reminded Cierre of Baldur's Gate, similarly inconvenient in layout, but Baldur's Gate was like that because new walls had been added several times as the city grew outward. Minas Tirith, it was evident, had been designed in this fashion from its founding.

Only Aragorn, Cierre, and the two Sons of Elrond accompanied Gandalf through the city; the rest of the Rangers who had learnt healing spells had stayed to man the field hospital that Aragorn had set up. They were on foot; Gandalf had recommended that they leave their horses behind, as negotiating the crowded streets on horseback was awkward and no faster than walking, and the Wizard had left Shadowfax outside the city to graze. In fact the traffic on the streets was diminishing by this time but Cierre, who was accustomed to walking for many miles, did not regret that they had left the horses behind.

It was apparent that the city had suffered bombardment as well as siege and assault. They passed buildings that had been shattered by blocks of stone hurled by catapults, and others which had been destroyed by fire and were still smouldering, and some walls marked by splatters of dried blood that Cierre guessed had come from citizens struck by the incoming missiles. As they went deeper into the city such marks and damage became rarer and by the Fourth Circle there were no longer any visible signs of the bombardment.

Looking upward Cierre caught glimpses of something that puzzled her. Teams of Men laboured to move some large and heavy object over the walls of the city and onto the steep slope of rock beyond. Buildings kept obscuring her view, preventing her from identifying what it was that they sought to remove, and then at last their route took them into a position in which she could see clearly.

"A wyvern!" she exclaimed. "An exceptionally large one at that. It was part of the force that assailed the city, I take it?"

"It was the mount of the Lord of the Ringwraiths," Gandalf answered her. "It took him quickly about the field, so that he fell upon Théoden King whilst I was rescuing Faramir from Denethor's madness, and then assaulted the Houses of Healing as I was hastening down to the battlefield to confront him there." He shook his head. "I was caught betwixt and between, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and thus great harm has come to pass."

Cierre grimaced. Perhaps she, too, had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. If she had ridden with Théoden, instead of taking the Paths of the Dead with Aragorn, she was sure she could have saved the old king. To her a wyvern in flight was just a helpless target – she had slain them before, without difficulty – and a wraith was little threat to her, protected as she was by her Amulet of Health. But if she had been with the Rohirrim how would Aragorn and the Company have fared against the Drow ambush on the Paths of the Dead? Would Khareese and her followers even have been there if Cierre had not been present?

A glimpse of something pink, out of the corner of her eye, distracted her from her pointless speculations upon what might have been. It was in the window of a shop in a lane that led off from the main thoroughfare. She could not tell what it was, at a distance and through glass, but it seemed to be exactly the same shade of pink as the feathers that adorned her new-found arrows. It could, perhaps, have been merely a reflection of the last rays of the setting sun but she thought not. Had she been alone, or in less haste, she would have turned aside for a closer look. As it was, however, all she could do was mark it in her mind for further investigation later.

They ascended to another level, followed the road to the next gate, and went up into the Sixth Circle. By that time the sun had set fully and only lanterns lit their way as they walked southward through the streets. The guard at the door of the Houses of Healing peered dubiously at the hooded and cloaked figures who approached.

"Hold, strangers, and declare yourselves," he challenged, in Westron, and then recognised Gandalf. "Mithrandir! You may enter, my lords."

Cierre sniffed the air. "Something died here, something… foul," she said. She saw drag marks on the ground, heading in the direction of the outer walls, and made a deduction. "The wyvern?"

"The great winged beast, steed to the Morgul-Lord, was slain here," said the guard, changing over to Sindarin in response to her use of that language. "It was Beregond of the Guard, together with three of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, who slew the beast."

"A worthy deed," said Cierre, sincerely. Those who would face a wyvern at close quarters, without enchanted blade or armour, were worthy of respect.

"Indeed so," said the guard, and then he saw Cierre's face clearly as she moved into the lamp-light and his eyebrows shot up. "Who… what… are you?"

"The Lady Cierre is an Elf from a far distant land," Gandalf said, "and is here to assist her fellow Elves who are skilled healers." He pointed toward the Sons of Elrond.

The guard looked at the two male Elves and seemed to relax as he saw their skins to be pale instead of black. "We are in sore need of skilled healers," he said. "I apologise if I caused offence, my lady."

"None taken," Cierre replied, "and your apology is most courteous." She, and the others, moved on into the buildings without further speech.

The Warden of the Houses of Healing was a tall Man, perhaps in late middle age as Men count years, whose rather angular features were set in a grave expression. His eyebrows lifted fractionally as he set eyes on Cierre but he made no comment.

"The Black Shadow defeats all our efforts to treat it," he told them, "and those who suffer it fall into a sleep from which they awaken not. They sink deeper and deeper into sleep, and they grow colder and colder, and then they die. And all our leech-craft is in vain."

"We have brought healing draughts made by Cierre's people," Aragorn said, indicating her as he spoke, "which have proven efficacious in cases not dissimilar to what you describe. And Elladan, Elrohir, and myself have all been trained in the healing arts by Lord Elrond, the greatest healer now resident in Middle Earth. We shall start with those in most urgent need."

"The most serious case is Mistress Ioreth, of our own staff, who was struck upon the temple by the Nazgûl-Lord and has a fractured skull in addition to being deep in the Black Shadow," said the Warden. "Also in dire straits is Prince Erchirion of Dol Amroth, who suffers the same malady and has lost his arm, and who is fading fast. Then there is his sister the Princess Lothíriel, who slew the Ringwraith, and the Prince of the Halflings who I am told aided her in that deed. Both have fallen into the deepest of unnatural sleeps and, in only hours, have become as cold as are those Men who were smitten during the retreat from the bridges at Osgiliath. I fear that they cannot last much longer. And Lord Faramir, son of the – no, he is the Steward now – suffers something akin to the Black Shadow but is burning hot instead of cold. He, too, seems but a short time from death."

"Then let us get to work without delay," said Aragorn. "We shall start with Mistress Ioreth, if her plight is the most grievous."

"That would be logical," agreed the Warden. "Bergil, come hither!"

A boy entered in answer to the Warden's call. He was younger than Cierre had expected to see, as she had gathered that the children and those women not acting as Healers had been evacuated from the city; she was not skilled at estimating the ages of humans but thought that he had not even reached puberty. He stared at the strangers with his eyes wide; Cierre thought that he looked as if he had been crying.

"Yes, Master Warden?" the boy asked.

"Conduct these… visiting Healers to the room in which we have placed Mistress Ioreth," the Warden commanded, "and after that stay with them and guide them wherever they should choose to go next."

"Of course, Master Warden," said the boy.

"Young Bergil escorted Pippin about the City, for a time, after we arrived here," Gandalf told the others, "and he will make you an excellent guide. I will leave you in his hands."

Gandalf departed and the boy, his eyes still wide, led the others through the building. The Houses of Healing were large, and held many beds for the sick and wounded, but the number of casualties from the siege and the battle had overwhelmed the facility. Wounded Men lay upon cots placed in the corridors, wherever they would not obstruct passage, and one room that they passed, containing many cots, was plainly not intended for that purpose. Desks stacked against one wall implied, to Cierre, that it served as a teaching room for student Healers in normal times. And the room in which Mistress Ioreth lay seemed to be intended as a place for Healers to take breaks from their duties.

The Healers had shaved the side of Ioreth's head and the tell-tale signs of a depressed skull fracture were clearly evident. "We would have operated to relieve the pressure on the brain," said the Healer attending her, "but it was felt that, smitten by the Black Shadow as she is, she would not survive the operation. Yet she will die anyway, and soon, if something is not done quickly."

"Both a Heal and a Restoration are needed, then," said Cierre, "or, better still, a Greater Restoration. There is a scroll of that spell amongst those that I took from the priestess I slew on the Paths of the Dead. I cannot use a scroll of that power, and it is written in Ilythiiri which Aragorn and Elrohir do not speak, but Elladan should be able to read it."

"I learnt the art of casting spells from scrolls in Faerûn," Elladan confirmed. "Healing scrolls only, that is; the combat scrolls used by Prentice were meaningless to me, although Nathyrra could cast from them."

"There were some of that kind amongst those I recovered," Cierre said. "Perhaps they may be of use to Gandalf."

"We shall consider that later," said Aragorn. He bent to scrutinise the site of the injury. "Will we need to operate in addition to using the spell, do you think?"

"I think not," Cierre answered. "I have not seen Greater Restoration used when there was both a serious injury and a life-drain but I have seen a Heal spell cast upon someone with a similar skull fracture. The bone returned to its rightful shape, without need of intervention, and the injured one showed no ill effects upon his return to consciousness."

"I shall stand ready, nonetheless," said Aragorn. He turned to the Healer. "Have hot water brought, and sterilising spirits," he commanded.

The Man, who had been listening uncomprehending to their conversation with signs of perplexity and perturbation beginning to show on his face, relaxed on hearing these more familiar terms. "At once, my lord," he said, and scurried off.

When he returned with the required items Aragorn prepared for possible surgery. Then Elrohir took the scroll and read from it. The perplexity, and concern, returned to the Healer's face.

Elrohir read out the final words of the spell, looked up, and noticed the Man's expression. "I think," he said to Cierre in Ilythiiri, "he believes the spell to be useless superstition. Such magic is unknown here."

"I had noticed," Cierre replied in the same language. "He shall learn otherwise shortly."

Indeed already the rounded depression in Ioreth's skull was becoming visibly shallower. The Healer's eyes began to widen and then his mouth dropped open. "Sweet Valar!" he gasped. "Her hair is growing back even as we watch!"

A few moments later Ioreth stirred. "Get away!" she cried, striking out at nothing, and then she opened her eyes. "What… where am I? Where is the Princess? Did that horrible… thing take her?"

"No, Mistress Ioreth, have no fear," the Healer said. "She slew the Ringwraith, she and the _Ernil i Pheriannath_, and although she is ill, as are… were… you, these strangers say they can heal her also."

The elderly _rivvin_ female went on to say more but the conversation was in Westron and Cierre could not follow it all. Ioreth was startled, and somewhat awestruck, to see Elves; she did not, however, appear to be overly surprised that Cierre's skin was black. There were black Men, for there had been such in the army assailing the City; why should there not, then, be black Elves? Thus she said, or something along those lines, and Cierre merely smiled and nodded. Then the female indicated that she wished to rise from her bed, and resume her duties amongst those who assisted the Healers, but she yawned and slumped down even as she voiced that wish.

"She will sleep naturally now, and be almost back to full health when she wakes," Cierre, who had the most experience of the after-effects of Restoration spells, advised the Healer. She turned to her companions. "Pippin next?"

"I see no reason why not," said Aragorn, "unless that would mean traversing the length of these Halls and then having to retrace our steps to attend the next patient. Bergil, is Peregrin Took the Halfling near at hand?"

"He is, lord," Bergil replied. He led them on to a small room in which a soldier in brown and green sat watching over a small, still, figure in a cot.

The soldier stood up as they approached. His cloak parted to reveal that he wore no shirt and that his chest was wrapped in bandages. Walking wounded, then, watching over the sick Hobbit so that a Healer could be spared for other tasks. He was the first they had met within the City who did not display astonishment at seeing Cierre's black skin; he had seen her upon the battlefield, he told them, and he spoke words of praise for her marksmanship that pleased her greatly. There was little time for pleasantries, however, and they went on to examine the patient.

Pippin lay without stirring, his skin seemed to be tinged with grey, and his breathing was shallow. "If he remains in this state we will not be able to give him the draught in the normal way," Elrohir said, after attempts to rouse the Hobbit had failed. "Passing a tube down his throat is a possibility but only as a last resort. Would administering the potion rectally be feasible, think you, Cierre?"

"I have never heard of such," Cierre said, "but there are so many more people who can cast spells in Faerûn that it is rare that any similar situation would arise. We have two scrolls of Restoration still, though, and we can use one on Pippin."

"Indeed so," said Aragorn, "but then we will have only one scroll remaining and those afflicted with the Black Breath are many. We must find a way, at the least, to rouse them from this unnatural slumber so that they may drink the potions. An infusion of athelas leaves may well be efficacious. Silanna found it so, certainly, in the aftermath of the assault by the Black Riders upon the Ranger guard at Sarn Ford." He looked down at young Bergil. "Is there athelas in the herb stores here? You may know it as kingsfoil."

"I could not say, my lord," the boy replied. "Shall I fetch the herb-master?"

"Yes, if you would be so good," Aragorn said, and the boy scampered off.

They did not wait for him to return but at once got on with casting Restoration from a scroll. It had an immediate effect; the colour came back to Pippin's cheeks, his breathing returned to normal, and then he opened his eyes.

"Strider!" he exclaimed. "You came! And Elladan, and Elrohir, and… Cierre. Where is Merry? And where are Legolas and Gimli?"

"Merry remained behind in Rohan," Aragorn told him, "and Legolas and Gimli are resting in our tent outside the City. Fear not, young Pippin, all of them are safe and well."

"Princess Éowyn promise-ed to look after Merry good," Cierre added.

"Oh! Princess Lothíriel!" Pippin said, sitting up. "Is she well? She fainted after she struck the… Ringwraith. And the matron Ioreth. The Witch-King struck her on the head and it looked as if she was badly hurt."

"We have healed Ioreth," Aragorn assured him. "Princess Lothíriel is… unwell, as were you, but we shall attend to her next."

"Good," said Pippin. "The Witch-King sought to stab her with a knife like the one he used on Frodo, to make her a wraith like himself, but I stopped him. I came up behind him and stabbed him behind the knee. And then Lothíriel cut off his head with a great big curved knife."

"Well done, Pippin!" said Aragorn. "A deed most valiant."

"I was terrified," Pippin admitted, "but I couldn't let him make the Princess into a wraith. And he wasn't paying any attention to me so I could get up close."

"Wraith forgetted thing all Drow are teached," Cierre said. "_Xuat ori'gato natha sakphul inbau rathrea dos xuil natha velvel_. That is, do not let Halfling – Hobbit – get behind you with a knife."

Pippin frowned briefly but then relaxed and laughed. "I'm afraid most of the Hobbits of the Shire wouldn't think to use a knife for anything but cutting up food," he said. "Oh. Food. I'm rather hungry. Is it past supper-time, do you think?"

"A typical Hobbit reaction, and by it we can be certain that Pippin is fully cured," Aragorn said. "Supper-time may have gone, indeed, but I am sure the Healers will be only too glad to feed you nonetheless."

"My lords, I have brought the herb-master," Bergil called, from the doorway, and then he saw Pippin sitting up. "Master Peregrin! You have awoken!"

"I told you, Bergil, you can call me Pippin," Pippin said. "Yes, my friends have woken me up."

"He was just requesting food," Aragorn said. "Perhaps you might inform the kitchens whilst we confer with the herb-master."

"At once, my lord," Bergil said, and he departed once more.

"I am informed that your lordships asked for kingsfoil, as the rustics name it," said the herb-master, "or athelas in the noble tongue, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean…"

"I do," said Aragorn, "and I care not whether you say now _asea aranion_ or kingsfoil, so long as you have some."

"Your pardon," said the herb-master. "I see that you are a lore-master and not merely a captain of war. Alas, we do not keep that herb in the Houses of Healing, where only those gravely ill or wounded are cared for, for it is of use only in the treatment of the most minor of ailments."

"I beg to differ," Aragorn said.

"Surely you do not give credit to the doggerel rhyme that some of the old wives, such as our good Ioreth, repeat without understanding," the herb-master said. He seemed about to repeat the rhyme but Aragorn cut him off short.

"I give credit to the fact that a healer of my people was successful in using athelas to bring one of my Men forth from the sleep of the Black Breath," said Aragorn, "and I myself have found it effective against a malady not dissimilar. Now, find me some without delay."

"I shall do my best, my lord," said the herb-master. He cast one more wondering look at the obviously healthy Hobbit, whose condition demonstrated that Aragorn knew what he was doing, and then departed.

"How many of these… Potions of Restoration do we have, Cierre?" Aragorn asked. "Not enough, I deem."

"Three for certain," Cierre said, "and there are three more that are the right colour but that I have not yet positively identified."

"Do so now," Aragorn said, "whilst we wait for young Bergil to return."

Cierre complied. The first of the three unidentified vials turned out to be merely Lesser Restoration, which would dispel the lingering after-effects of disease or poisoning, or the loss of strength brought on by the touch of Shadows, but which would be of little benefit to the victims of a wraith's life-draining powers. It would have cleared up the aches in her arms in no time, and she was tempted to drink it on the spot, but as all she really needed was a good rest – and perhaps a massage, if someone could be found to administer one – she left it for someone in greater need. The next vial was, indeed, a full Restoration, as was the last.

Aragorn sniffed the air and then asked Cierre if he could make a closer examination of the bottle. He held it close to his face and inhaled deeply. "There is athelas in this mixture," he declared. "Confirmation, if any were needed, that athelas will have a restorative effect upon the victims."

"That is well, when our supply of potions is so limited," said Elrohir, "as long as the herb-master can come up with athelas. He does not inspire confidence."

"It grows upon the Pelennor Fields," said Aragorn, "but whether any can be found after tens of thousands of feet and hooves have trampled all around is another matter. Still, we shall find some eventually, even if not tonight. It would not surprise me if Mistress Ioreth, when she wakes, could lay her hands upon some."

"Indeed so," Elrohir agreed.

Meanwhile Cierre was silently gritting her teeth. She had noticed some of the plants used in Restoration potions, known to her as godsherb and which she had sometimes sold to herbalists in Faerûn, during one of the brief rest halts on the journey from the Paths of the Dead to Pelargir. At the time, however, she had been looking out only for mushrooms and she had not thought to gather any of the plant's leaves. Too late now.

At that moment young Bergil returned, accompanied by a servant bearing a tray of cold meats, and Pippin sat bolt upright in his bed.

"We shall leave Pippin to his food," Aragorn said, "and move on to the next patient. Bergil, conduct us, if you would, to whosoever is the nearest of the Princess Lothíriel, Prince Erchirion, or Lord Faramir."

"At once, my lord," Bergil said. This time he led them to the room that held Lothíriel.

Cierre had expected that a princess who had decapitated a powerful wraith would prove to be a warrior princess from the same mould as Éowyn. The slender figure who lay, as inert and unresponsive as Pippin had been, in the bed did not fit in with her expectations. She was as beautiful as any storybook princess, even when showing the deathly pallor of the Black Breath, but did not have the look of a warrior. She wore the grey robes of the Healers; that explained how she had been present to face the King of the Ringwraiths when he attacked the Houses.

A Healer was in attendance on her and had been applying hot compresses to her right arm. "The Nazgûl must have seized her by the arm, my lords," he explained, "and it is afflicted by a deadly chill. We fear that, even if we can save her life, she may lose the use of the limb."

"And, as with Pippin, she will not be able to drink the potion," Elrohir said. "We shall have to use our last precious scroll. Will further spells or potions be required to complete her healing, Cierre?"

Cierre wasn't used to being treated as an expert, in any field other than the application of extreme violence, but she was finding the experience pleasing. "A Cure Light Wounds, perhaps," she said, "but nothing more. The Restoration may well be sufficient in itself."

Elladan took up the scroll and recited the spell. Once again the Healer looked on with incomprehension, and perhaps even scorn, but both expressions dissipated as Lothíriel stirred and opened her eyes.

After a moment of initial confusion Lothíriel's first concern was for her patient. "I was assisting with an amputation," she explained, "and I left my post in haste when the… Wraith-King came. What happened to the Man? I did not want to leave at such a moment, and thus imperil him, but I could not do otherwise."

"He lives yet, my lady," the Healer informed her. "He lost more blood than Master Damrod would have wished, and is weak, but is in no immediate danger."

"Thanks be to the Valar!" Lothíriel sighed. Now her attention turned to the strangers. "And thanks be to you, sirs and lady, if it was you who brought me forth from the embrace of the Black Shadow." She was speaking faultless Sindarin with the ease of one to whom it was a native language. "I had not thought to see Elves here, in Gondor, where none have been in my lifetime or for many long years before that. And I had not known that the _Moriquendi_ were dark of skin, even though it is implied by the name."

"Actually that is not what it means, and Cierre is of a different people," Elladan said, "but we could talk of that at another time."

"Of course," Lothíriel said. "How fares Mistress Ioreth? She smote that fell creature with her broom and was struck a cruel blow in return. And the Prince of the Halflings?"

"We have just come from them," said Aragorn. "Mistress Ioreth was injured, and she too had fallen under the Black Shadow, but we have dispelled that and healed her hurts. Now she sleeps a natural sleep and will be well when she awakens. As for Master Peregrin, he is tucking into a hearty meal, after the manner of his kind."

"_Prince_ of the Halflings? Pippin is a prince? I did not know this," Cierre said.

"It is an exaggeration," said Aragorn. "His father is the Thain of the Shire, the highest position in that land, but hardly a king."

"Tell me, how is it that you were able to bring me forth from the Black Shadow? And to do likewise for Ioreth and he who I know as Prince of the Halflings?"

"Peregrin Took is his rightful name," Aragorn said. "As for the cures… Cierre's people have certain healing arts which can only be described as 'magic'. She has taught them to us, and Elladan has brought healing materials from Cierre's… country."

"Do not ask me to explain how it works," Cierre said, as Lothíriel turned her gaze upon the Drow girl. "I was thrown out of the clerical college because my understanding was flawed and my explanations unsatisfactory."

Lothíriel laughed, briefly, and then her expression turned serious once again. "Can you use these arts to heal Faramir? I had time for only the most cursory of examinations but his condition appeared to be grave indeed."

"We have not yet seen him, but I am confident that, at the very least, we will be able to alleviate his condition significantly," said Aragorn. "And we should be able to aid your brother, too."

"My brother?" Lothíriel's eyes widened. "Word came to us that my father and my brothers had been slain. Is it not so?"

"Your father was slain indeed, alas," said Aragorn, "and a sad loss it was to all. But your brothers live. Prince Erchirion is badly injured, and lies in these Houses in the sleep of the Black Breath, but Prince Amrothos was only stunned. He was able to return to the fray before the end of the battle and was then wounded, I am told, but not severely."

"Praise the Valar!" Lothíriel said. "Please, go to Erchirion with all speed and employ your… magic healing arts."

"That is our intention," Aragorn said.

"And I should rise and resume my duties," Lothíriel continued, "for with so many wounded Men every Healer is sorely needed."

"Let me examine your arm first, my lady," put in the Healer who had been tending her before the arrival of Aragorn's party.

"It is sore," Lothíriel admitted, as the compress was removed and both the Healer and Aragorn scrutinised the arm.

Cierre noted that Aragorn showed no signs of reacting to Lothíriel's stunning beauty in the slightest. She regarded this as confirmation, if any were needed, that he was _do'ch_. Even in the unbecoming grey robes Lothíriel was still lovely enough to give any Priestess of Sune a run for her money. Cierre could recognise appreciation in the eyes of Elrohir, and to a lesser extent in those of Elladan, and guessed that her own eyes would display something not dissimilar plus a slight case of breast envy. Aragorn, however, regarded Lothíriel as dispassionately as he would have done an injured horse.

"You would need to rest the arm for at least two days, and probably longer, in the normal course of events," Aragorn advised, "but we have potions that can clear up the bruising immediately. Our supply is limited but I would say that you should take one anyway. Enabling a skilled Healer to return to full duty, without impairment, is more important than holding back a single one of our most minor draughts."

"My skills are not great," Lothíriel said. "I am a trainee only and it will be years before I could class myself as a fully qualified Healer. Yet in these present circumstances even my limited skills are in great demand." She accepted the potion vial and gazed at it with inquiring eyes. "What is in this?"

The eyes of the others turned to Cierre. "Primarily a fruit we call 'fenberry'," she answered. "I know not what it would be called here, nor even if it grows in this… region."

"It seems strange to me that one should drink a remedy for bruising, rather than applying it to the site of the injury," Lothíriel said, "but it is obvious that you know what you are doing." She drank the potion and then exclaimed in amazement as the bruises faded and disappeared before her eyes. She would have risen at once, and returned to her duties, but Aragorn stated firmly that she was to do no such thing.

"You will quickly grow fatigued," Elladan said, reinforcing Aragorn's advice. "I speak from experience. Sleep now and you will rise, in the morn, once more able to give your all to your duties."

Lothíriel's protests were interrupted by a yawn and, reluctantly, she admitted that the advice was sound and allowed herself to be dissuaded from rising. Lothíriel's yawn triggered one from Cierre; she suppressed it, as best she could, but she suspected that the others had noticed.

The group moved on, once more, this time to Prince Erchirion. His arm, they were told, had been bitten off at the elbow by the Nazgûl's winged steed. In addition to that he, too, suffered from the Black Breath, but Cierre thought that it lay less heavily upon him than upon those they had seen before him. And he was not as deep in unconsciousness; he moved his head, and muttered aloud, although his eyes remained closed.

"We should be able to get him to drink," Aragorn said, with some relief. "There will be no need to wait for someone to lay hands upon a store of athelas. He is not so deep in the Black Shadow as were the others. I would guess he did not come into such close contact with the Nazgûl. More serious is the loss of his arm."

Cierre held out a potion bottle. "It is providential, then, that Elladan found this in Faerûn," she said. "A Potion of Regeneration. Rare, and precious, for only one who is a priestess of great power and also highly skilled in alchemy can prepare these. The brave prince shall wield his sword again."

Aragorn's eyebrows ascended so high that they seemed almost as if they were seeking to escape his head. "Are you saying that it will restore his missing arm?"

"Indeed so, _Jabbuk_," Cierre confirmed. "Like the trolls of my world, or certain creatures of the sea, his limb shall grow back."

"Sabal reached for her pouch after I cut off her arm," Elladan said. "This must be what she sought."

"No doubt that is so," said Cierre. "Let us administer this potion first and then the Restoration."

Aragorn and Elladan, between them, managed to get both potions down the throat of the semi-conscious prince. Unlike their previous patients he did not awaken on the spot but slipped into a relaxed, natural, sleep. The Healer in attendance at first believed that they had achieved nothing more than easing the prince's discomfort somewhat; then it became evident that the stump of the arm was lengthening, growing, and beginning to show the shape of fingers at the end. He rubbed his eyes, and stared, and rubbed his eyes again.

"I cannot believe my eyes!" the Healer cried. "This is a miracle! Even the arts of Númenor at their peak surely could not have achieved such a remarkable result."

"It is the only such potion we had, alas," said Cierre, "and we have no way of getting more." She looked down at the sleeping prince. He was as good-looking for a male as his sister was for a female; it was a little disappointing that he had not woken and been able to thank her personally.

"Still, it is a great thing that you have done," said the Healer.

"There is still more we can achieve," said Aragorn. "Let us next see to Lord Faramir."

A guardsman in black and silver livery sat on a stool outside Faramir's room. He stood up as they approached but did not challenge them; instead a smile lit up his face.

"Who are these with you, Bergil?" the guard asked.

"This is my father, Beregond of the Guard," Bergil said. "Father, this is the Lord Aragorn, the Elf-Lords Elrohir and Elladan, and the Elf-Lady Cierre." He managed to pronounce Cierre's name correctly, unlike many; an intelligent and perceptive child, Cierre thought. "They are great healers and have worked wonders already. Now they have come to see Lord Faramir."

"If you can heal the Lord Faramir it will be a great service to the City, Lords," said Beregond. "He lies within."

Aragorn sent Bergil off to find the herb-master and see what, if any, progress he had made in finding athelas. He then turned his attention to Faramir. "This is not the same as the malady afflicting the others," he said at once. "Not at all."

"I agree," said Elrohir. "Hmm. He has been wounded, I see, but the wound is healing cleanly. There is no sign of infection. A toxin, perhaps?"

Cierre waited, feeling unable to contribute, as the others discussed the case and questioned Beregond about what had happened to Faramir. Eventually a consensus was reached that Faramir's condition was the result of multiple causes, each minor in itself, but in combination serious and potentially lethal.

"A Cure Disease potion and a Lesser Restoration should be sufficient to revive him, then," Cierre suggested, trying but failing to suppress a yawn in the middle of her speech. "We can save the remaining Restoration potions for those suffering the full effects of the Black Breath."

"An excellent suggestion," Aragorn agreed, and put Cierre's advice into practice.

Cierre had been looking forward to meeting Boromir's brother but the reality was something of a disappointment. He didn't seem interested her in the slightest, other than the usual initial negative reaction upon seeing her black skin, and she had no chance to tell him that Boromir had saved her life. Aragorn was the only one of the group in whom Faramir seemed interested. _Do'ch_, too, she decided, and far more blatantly so than Aragorn. Cierre quickly lost interest in the conversation, which dealt with topics she knew nothing about, and she began to find it impossible to suppress her yawns.

As Faramir talked with Aragorn about something political, which Cierre neither understood nor cared about, young Bergil returned.

"I have found kingsfoil, my lord," he said, triumphantly, holding out six leaves on a cloth. "It is not fresh, I fear, for it must be six weeks since it was culled. Will it serve?"

"It will serve," Aragorn said, smiling. "With this, and the restorative draughts, I should be able to revive those still afflicted with the Black Breath. Well done, young Bergil."

Faramir had, for the moment, ceased his chatter and Cierre took advantage of this to speak up. "I think you need me no longer, _Jabbuk_ Aragorn, and I am fatigued," she said. "I shall return to the camp, with your permission, and sleep long enough to regain my spells."

"Of course you may go," Aragorn said, "but not alone. Someone must go with you. Bergil, has Mithrandir returned?"

"No, my lord," the boy replied.

"Perhaps we might find a contingent returning to the camp-sites after delivering wounded Men to these Houses," Aragorn said.

"I am no child to need a nursemaid, _Jabbuk_," Cierre said. "I can find my way to the gates without aid."

"I do not doubt that, Cierre," Aragorn replied, "but the common folk of the City might react badly to encountering a stranger, of no race that they would recognise, passing through the streets after dark. I would not wish you to be forced to defend yourself and perhaps slay misguided but innocent people. Better by far that you delay a while until one or more can be found to go with you."

"Perhaps that is wise," Cierre agreed, reluctantly. She waited while Aragorn brought an end to his conversation with Faramir, promising to return on the morrow to continue their discussion, and then they departed.

Their course, as they made their way from one patient to the next, had brought them back into the vicinity of the entrance. There they met the Warden, once more, and reported to him on what they had achieved. He seemed incredulous at first but when Bergil confirmed their claims he showered them with effusive expressions of gratitude.

"There is yet more that we can do, especially now that we have obtained leaves of athelas," Aragorn said, "but our companion Lady Cierre grows fatigued and needs to return to our camp outside the walls to rest. I do not wish her to go alone and would seek someone to accompany her."

"That should not be a problem," said the Warden, "for since the battle ended Men have been bringing wounded comrades here, or coming to seek lost fellows who might be amongst the wounded, and there are two such groups of Men here at this very moment. No doubt one or both will be returning to their camp soon enough."

And, indeed, it was mere minutes before a half-dozen Men of Lebennin emerged from deeper within the Halls. They had seen Cierre at Pelargir, and glimpsed her upon the battlefield, and were happy for her to accompany them on their way out of the City. The only down side, from Cierre's point of view, was that they spoke no Sindarin and her ability to converse with them was thus limited. As she had no intention of engaging in lengthy conversation this mattered little and, before long, she had said her farewells to Aragorn and the twins and was walking with the Men on their way down to the gates.

Listening to them converse amongst themselves, when she was not fluent enough in their tongue to join in, irritated her and before long she had allowed herself to lag slightly behind the others. Then, as they went through the Fourth Level of the City, she noticed that they were passing the lane in which she had glimpsed something of a shade of pink that matched her newly-acquired feathers. She halted, and peered into the lane, but could not make out what it was that she had seen.

"Wait, please!" she called out to the Men, but they did not seem to notice. Certainly they did not pause but continued on their way. Cierre hesitated, considering, and then decided that she could spare the time to investigate briefly. Catching the others up would not be a problem for her; she could, at need, run faster than any Man or Elf who was not using a Haste spell or Boots of Speed. She turned aside and entered the lane.

The lanterns illuminating the lane were few, and far apart, but to a Drow this mattered little. She had no difficulty finding the place where she had seen the flash of pink. It was a shop window, a dressmaker's shop to be specific, and when she peered through the window she saw a mannequin clad in a formal gown. Making out colour in these lighting conditions was not easy but she believed that it was pink trimmed with white. Whether it was the same shade as the feathering of her arrows, or not, was impossible to say but the mannequin's head was adorned with a small headdress with a feathered plume. That plume closely resembled the one she had seen on the brow-band of the horse that had carried the arrows' original owner. The odds were very high that it did, indeed, come from the same type of bird. If the dress matched it, as seemed highly probable, then her assessment of its colour was almost certainly correct.

The dress looked to be about the right size for her, too. She expected that there would be a victory ball, or something similar, once the Dark Lord had been cast down. Such events, in Faerûn, had held little appeal to her as she had had little doubt that she would be unwelcome. Here, though, she had no doubt that she would be invited and it would be nice, for once, to attend and to wear something more feminine than armour. In that dress she would look striking, and attractive to many, and perhaps she would be able to get Elrohir to look upon her as more than just a fellow warrior. Or, if not him, then another of the handsome males who were quite thick on the ground around here.

She was vaguely aware of some shouting in the background, not particularly close but definitely in the neighbourhood, but paid it little heed. Only when she turned around, after spending a couple of minutes staring into the window, did she realise that a small crowd of people had emerged from the buildings nearby and were surrounding her. None had come closer than ten yards, and she did not regard herself as being in any immediate danger, but definitely she was the focus of their attention. She should have reacted earlier, she knew, and she was annoyed with herself at having let her alertness slip.

A couple of the people called out to her, questioning or challenging, but she could not hear their words clearly as simultaneously others in the crowd were speaking to each other. Her black skin, clearly visible as her hair was in a braid to keep it clear of her face, seemed to be causing a degree of consternation.

"I not speak Westron good," she said, loudly. "_Pedig edhellen_? You speak Sindarin?"

The only response was more calls in Westron demanding to know who, and what, she was and accusing her of being a creature of the Enemy. Then someone threw a stone at her.

She dodged, effortlessly, but now she was beginning to become concerned. The situation was escalating towards violence. She did not regard the growing mob as any real threat to her life but defending herself without using her weapons might be impossible. And it would be poor thanks to Boromir if, having helped to lift the siege of his city, she then painted its streets red with the blood of its citizens.

"I am friend," she called. "I come on ships, fight orcs."

Only one person, a Man who had an arm in a sling, seemed to register what she had said. His voice, calling for restraint, was drowned out by angrier voices. Some in the crowd seemed to have interpreted what she said as an admission that she _was_ an orc. Weapons began to be brandished, spades and pokers and kitchen knives, and another cobble-stone was hurled. She snatched it out of the air, for if she had merely dodged it would have broken the dressmaker's window, and tossed it aside.

"Stop!" she cried. "I not enemy." It didn't help and the crowd began to approach closer. She cursed herself for not taking sufficient notice of Aragorn's warning, only her fatigue counting as an excuse, and sought for a way of escape. There were now too many people between her and the exit to the main street for her to simply run for it. She decided that the rooftops offered her best route; being as strong as a human twice her weight she could climb and leap faster and higher than any could follow.

The nearest roof was much too high even for her to reach in a single bound. She leapt upward and caught a window-ledge. She began to clamber up, slowed somewhat by her aching arms, but then two stones were hurled at her and both struck home. One bounced harmlessly from her Greenleaf armour but the other caught her on the side of the head. Her senses reeled, momentarily, and she lost her grip upon the ledge and fell to the ground.

She scrambled to her feet at once but already the pack had rushed at her. Someone swung a shovel at her head, a cudgel came down toward her shoulder, and a burly Man aimed a kick at her stomach.

She ducked under the shovel, deflected the cudgel blow, and brought up her own foot to block the kick. Before the shovel-wielder could redirect his strike she had rammed her forehead into his face. He staggered back, his nose smashed, but another Man took his place. She struck one attacker with the heel of her palm, rammed her elbow into the stomach of another, and delivered a kick that doubled an attacker up in retching agony. But others pressed forward and she could not gain space to escape.

Her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl and she put her right hand to the hilt of Heleg Naur.


	10. I Predict A Riot

**Chapter Ten: I Predict a Riot**

Cierre grasped her sword but, simultaneously, someone caught hold of her sword-arm. She released her grip on the sword-hilt and, instead, went with her opponent's pull. This brought her hand into close proximity to the man's groin; she grabbed and squeezed. He shrieked and released his hold.

"_Ultrinnan_!" she yelled, and pushed the man away. She used a leg to sweep another man's feet out from under him. As he toppled she seized him and used his body as a living flail to drive back her attackers. For a moment she managed to clear a space but the mob pressed forward again immediately.

She needed a weapon; ideally something non-lethal. Her bow-stave would have served as a crude staff but, thinking she would not need it, she had left her bow in Gimli's care. If she drew Heleg Naur people would die. Even the flat of that deadly sword could kill or maim. And her axe Frostreaver was nearly as bad; its frost enchantment was less powerful, true, but it had an additional acid charm for killing trolls and would burn exposed skin horribly. In fact the least lethal weapon in her possession was the razor-sharp, twice-enchanted, nine-inch dagger sheathed in her left boot. She had no wish to kill these _rivvin_ – but if it came down to a choice between her being beaten to death by a mob, and her killing to escape, then kill she would.

But could she even kill her way out? Slaying those who surrounded her now would not be difficult. This seemed to be a well-to-do area and those first to attack her seemed to be apprentice lads, household servants, and the shopkeepers and master craftsmen who employed them. Untrained in combat and armed with household implements and tools. But they were being joined by men with swords and shields; the sons of the merchants, she would guess, serving as soldiers and guardsmen. No doubt more would come, and then more, as the hue and cry brought them forth from their post-battle rest or their evening meal. Within a very short time the odds would be impossible even for her. And casting a Darkness spell would only confirm, in their minds, that she was an enemy.

No, the only way she was going to get out of this perilous situation was to keep her weapons sheathed and to hope she could stay alive until either the crowd saw sense, someone arrived who recognised her from the battlefield, or the Men of Lebennin noticed that she no longer followed them and turned back to seek her. Or Gandalf passed by.

She punched one man, and kicked another, even as she was considering her plan of action. And then someone caught hold of her cloak and heaved. Almost she lost her footing; she managed to stay upright, with an effort, but was dragged back and further away from the main street. A tall young man swung a coopers' hammer at her head, and she could neither block nor dodge, but she was moving away from the blow and it landed with only a portion of its force. Even so pain shot through her and she saw stars.

"_Vith_!" she growled, as she staggered, and then she hurled herself in the direction of the pull and lashed the back of a fist into the face of the one who had hold of her cloak. He let go and reeled back. She released the clasp of her cloak and was about to let it fall free when a tall man, whose head was wrapped in a bandage, came at her with a sword. She tossed the cloak over his head and seized his sword-arm while he was unsighted. Wrenching the sword from his hand was easy but the instant she had hold of it she released her grip and let it fall to the ground.

Hopefully someone would notice that this was a deliberate act, and would realise that she was refraining from using lethal force and so was not an enemy, but she wasn't optimistic. The philosopher who had told her that you could not cross the same river twice had told her also, and much more sensibly in her opinion, that the intelligence of a crowd was equal to that of its stupidest member. So far this mob seemed to be proving him correct. Except for the man with his arm in the sling, who seemed to be trying to get the others to see reason, but his voice was being swallowed up in the general clamour.

"I… am… friend," she yelled, even as she blocked a punch aimed at her face. "Gandalf – Mithrandir – will tell you. Lothíriel, Faramir…" The only apparent result of her appeal was to cause someone to start shouting that the 'black creature' was in the City to murder Faramir.

And then, at last, Cierre spotted something that perhaps she could use to her advantage. At the back of the crowd a portly man, a prosperous merchant by his build and apparel, brandished a broom as his crude weapon. In his hands it was no threat to her; by the way he held it she guessed it would be used to fend her off, should she break through the crowd and approach him, rather than to strike a telling blow. But in her hands… She lowered her head, aimed herself at the broom-wielder, and charged.

Fists and weapons lashed out at her. A flaming torch slammed into her cheek and might have set her hair ablaze were it not for her Ring of Elemental Protection. The youth with the coopers' hammer struck at her again and hit her squarely between the shoulder-blades. Her Greenleaf armour was less effective against blunt weapons and reduced the force of the impact only slightly. She cried out in pain and lost her footing, catching herself with her hands just before she would have hit the ground, then felt a boot crash into her side with force enough to perhaps have cracked a rib.

To stay down would be to die an ugly death. She pushed herself back up to her feet and made a desperate lunge. The fat merchant yelped and thrust out at her with the sweeping end of the broom; to fend her off, as she had predicted, not to injure. She seized the shaft and wrenched it from his grasp. At once she swung the broom in a circle, fast and hard, and managed to clear a space around her and gain a moment's respite.

She released the broom with her left hand and reached down, simultaneously bringing up her left foot, and took hold of her dagger's hilt. The steel blade gleamed in the torch-light as she brought it up.

"'Ware knife!" someone yelled in warning, but her intention was not to use the dagger to strike. That would be as bad as if she'd drawn sword. Instead she sliced across the ties that bound the birch twigs to the broomstick. The twigs fell away and now she held a short staff almost identical to the one with which she had won the Grand Melee four years in succession.

She lashed out with it, one-handed, dealing the closest threat a painful whack across the shins. Once more she brought up her left foot and reached down with her hand, this time to sheath the dagger; even in this perilous situation she wasn't going to toss a weapon worth two thousand Waterdeep dragons down onto cobblestones. Then she took a two-handed grip upon the broomstick and began to strike out in earnest.

"_Ultrinnan_!" she cried, as she scooped the legs from under one man and made him fall on his backside. She cracked two men across the shins and then brought the staff up between the legs of the apprentice with the hammer. He dropped the weapon to clutch at his groin. A thrust to the belly of a shovel-wielding servant doubled him up, retching, and the shovel fell at his feet. Two quick head-high strikes, left then right, sent one man reeling and dropped another senseless on the ground. She advanced into the space they had vacated, met a sword-stroke with a deflection parry that sent the blade harmlessly past her, and butt-stroked the swordsman across the side of the jaw. Someone dived to tackle her around the legs; she leapt over the dive, landed on the man's back and drove the wind from him, then jumped clear and brought her staff down on the next man's shoulder in a blow that numbed his arm and made him drop his weapon.

At last she was gaining ground, getting nearer to the street, and her spirits rose. Every time she struck pain shot through her strained arms, her ribs and back hurt with every indrawn breath, and her singed cheek smarted dreadfully, but it no longer seemed impossible that she would win clear. And one of the sword-armed latecomers had joined the sling-wearer in calling for a halt to the affray. His voice was almost drowned out by the general baying for blood but it was a hopeful sign. She might get out of this alive after all.

"_Usstan zhal nezdous_" she cried, triumphantly. "_Ultrinnan_!"

And her cry was answered.

"_Ultrinnan_!" a voice shouted from the direction of the main street. "Cierre? We come!"

She did not recognise the voice; if her hearing had been less acute she wouldn't have heard it at all, at a distance and over the hubbub of the mob. She was, however, fairly sure she could place the accent. Rohirrim. "Forth Éorlingas!" she yelled in response. "To me!"

The momentary distraction nearly proved fatal. In front of her a broad-shouldered man raised an adze and aimed a blow at her head. She brought up her broomstick to meet the adze's shaft, stopping the weapon short, but was slow to notice another man coming in from the side and slashing at her neck with an odd blade in the shape of a flat ring with a central grip. In the nick of time she sensed the blow, and swayed aside so that the weapon missed, but the attacker then slashed downward and managed to slice along her left arm from just below Greenleaf's spaulder to her elbow.

"Aaagh! _Vith_!" she howled. Her left hand slipped from the broomstick but she kept hold with her right and struck out at the hands of the man wielding the adze. He yelped and dropped the weapon. Then Cierre whirled and landed a retaliatory strike on the man who had cut her. The broomstick caught him across the bridge of the nose, breaking it, and he fell to his knees with blood streaming down his face. She regained her two-handed grip on the broomstick, as the cut was not deep enough to impair her use of the arm, and went back on the attack.

Strike, parry, strike; she worked her way forward, a few feet closer to the lane's exit at a time, and then the crowd began to part ahead of her. She heard the clink of mail, and voices shouting in a Rohirric accent, and then half a dozen tall, fair-haired and bearded, mail-clad warriors came into view.

"The Riders of Rohan!" cried one of the mob. "With their aid we shall slay this orcish creature at last!"

Two men, encouraged by the presence of the Rohirrim, charged at Cierre. She met one with the tip of her broomstick jabbed firmly into his belly. The other man was bashed aside by a Rider's shield and fell over, landing in a sitting position, from which he stared up at the Rider with a baffled expression on his face.

The Rider ignored him and addressed Cierre. "_Wes hāl_, Lady Cierre," he said, with a smile.

She knew the man; in fact the last time she had seen him she had punched him in the face. His expression indicated that he bore her no animosity, and was obeying King Théoden's injunction that the quarrel between them was to be at an end, and Cierre was happy to take the same position.

"_Wes hāl_, Heruwald," she replied, giving him an answering smile, and using up almost her entire Rohirric vocabulary. "_Wes hāl_, Gléowine," she added, as she recognised one of the other warriors as one whom she had met before. The others she did not know by name and she greeted them only with a smile and a nod of her head.

"What is happening here?" Gléowine asked. "Why do these Men of Mundburg attack you?"

"I am black so they think I am enemy," Cierre said. "One of them call me Orc."

Most of the noise from the crowd had died away now, save for moans and groans from the injured, and the sounds one man was making as he doubled over retching. From out of the throng there stepped forward a heavy-set man; the fine cloth of his clothing led Cierre to judge him to be a prosperous merchant and, going by the napkin that was still tucked at his neck, one who had come forth from a meal to join the affray.

"Are you saying, Men of Rohan, that this… black creature is… one of you?" The incredulity in his voice was plain.

"Black creature?" Gléowine's incredulity matched that of the merchant. "Can you not see, Man of Mundburg, that Cierre is a fair Elf-maid? No, she is not a Rider of the Éorlingas, but Théoden King proclaimed her _Hildwine_, that is, Battle-friend, after her great deeds when she came to the aid of the Mark at Helm's Deep. They shall be told in song and story as long as the Riddermark endures."

Cierre didn't know all of the words in this speech but understood enough to gather that he was giving her high praise. She might have blushed if that had been possible for a Drow.

"I told you!" spoke up the man who wore a sling. "If she had been an enemy she would have drawn sword."

"Hah!" said Gléowine. "If Cierre had drawn her blade then most of you would need burial. All of you, perhaps. At the Deeping Wall she, alone, slew a score of Dunlendings and then hewed their chieftain in twain at the waist."

"I knew it!" said the swordsman who had been the second to urge the mob to cease their attack. "I could tell from her staff-work that she was a fighter of great skill."

It was impossible to tell for sure, in the flickering light of torches, but Cierre was fairly sure the merchant's face paled. "But… why did you not say something, Mistress Elf?"

"I try," Cierre said, "but I am not speak Westron good. And you…" she could not think of the right word in Westron and filled in with the Ilythiiri term, "…_rivvin_ did not let me to speak, throw stone, come at me…"

"You are hurt, Lady Cierre," Heruwald said. "Your head, and your arm…"

Cierre touched fingers to her cheek, saw Heruwald frown, and realised that the blistering wasn't what he had noticed. Then the sensation of something wet trickling down her other cheek registered on her and, raising her hand to investigate, she found that her hair above her ear was damp with blood and a cut under the hair stung as she probed. With all her other hurts she had forgotten about this one but, now that her attention had been drawn to it, she could not forget it again.

"I know, Heruwald," she replied. "I use all my healer spells in battle. None left. I sleep, get more spells, then make me better."

She had suffered greater injury in this brawl than in the two major battles put together plus the ambush on the Paths of the Dead. Mentally she kicked herself. Had she thought to don her Ring of Protection then the stone might have done her no harm at all, the cut on her arm been a mere scratch, and the hammer blow's impact would have been softened enough that she might have stayed on her feet. But the Ring of Insight had been the right choice for her in the Houses of Healing and she had had no way of knowing that she would get into a fight as she walked back to the camp.

"We should take you to the Houses of Healing," Heruwald said.

"I just come from there," she replied. "I help Aragorn."

"We, too, have come from the Houses of Healing," said Heruwald. "Éomer sent… Éomer King sent us to…" He hesitated, said a few words in Rohirric, and then went back to Westron. His command of the language, although much better than Cierre's, was by no means perfect. "To make count of Riders taken there from the battlefield."

Which meant that if Cierre had waited only a few minutes longer she could have accompanied the Rohirrim down through the city, rather than the Men of Lebennin, and shared in their conversation rather than trudging along in the rear. And no doubt the Riders would have been happy to accommodate her desire to turn aside for a moment, and would have accompanied her, and she would not have been a lone, black, figure to arouse fear and suspicion in the people who lived in the lane. But that was… water under the bridge, as the _rivvin_ expression put it, and there was no point in thinking about might-have-beens.

"You go back to camp, I go with," Cierre said, addressing the band of Rohirrim as a whole rather than speaking directly to Heruwald.

"We should bind up that arm first," said Gléowine. "It looks to be a nasty gash."

Cierre shrugged, and then regretted it as pain shot through both arms and her upper back. "I fix after sleep," she said.

"We apologise most sincerely for this… regrettable misunderstanding, Mistress Elf," said the merchant who seemed to have appointed himself as spokesman for the crowd. "If there is anything we can do to make it up to you…"

Cierre could work out the meaning of the sentence, although she only knew the word 'apologise' because it had come up in her conversation with Pippin at Isengard, but she was at a loss as to how to reply. Her limited Westron vocabulary didn't extend to what she wanted to say. "_Pedig edhellen_?" she asked. No-one had responded when she had first asked that question, just before the mob had attacked her, but perhaps one of the later arrivals might speak Sindarin.

And, indeed, several voices responded in the affirmative. The self-appointed spokesman, the other portly merchant from whom she had acquired the broomstick, the swordsman who had been second to speak up for her, and the other swordsman over whose head she had thrown her cloak, plus two or three others with whom she had not come into contact during the fight.

Cierre switched over to Sindarin with relief. "The fault was partly mine," she admitted. "Aragorn warned me not to go off by myself, and found me an escort, but I was foolish and strayed from the path. And your people have suffered worse than have I."

"That they have," the merchant agreed, "but there can be no blame on you for that. We should have asked questions instead of just attacking you. It will have been the 'prentice boys first, I expect, hot-headed fools that they are."

Cierre wasn't so sure; one of those first to attack her had been older, thicker in the waist, and better-dressed than any apprentice she'd ever seen in Faerûn. She let that pass, however, and turned to the swordsman who had spoken up for her.

"I thank you, sir, for your attempts to defuse the situation," she said. "I would ask you to pass on my thanks also to the Man who has his arm in a sling, who was first of all to recognise that I was not a foe, and who spoke up for me before anyone else. I am deeply grateful to you both."

The first translated to the second, and they both thanked her, and then she asked if someone would find her cloak. It was recovered and handed to her; more than somewhat dirty, having been trodden on by several pairs of feet as it lay on the ground, but dirt came out of a Cloak of Elvenkind easily and a good brushing would be all that the garment required to restore it to a wearable condition.

"There is one thing you could do for me," she said to the merchant spokesman, as she folded up the cloak. "I came into this lane to take a closer look at something I had glimpsed from the street. A dress, in that window there." She pointed. "I desire that it be held for me to purchase once this war is won."

"That is my wife's shop, Mistress Elf," said the man from whom she had taken the broomstick. "It will be closed until such time as it is safe for the women and children to return to the City. It shall be my pleasure to inform her that the dress should be reserved for you. You mean the dress central in the window, the pink one with the headdress of flamingo feathers, I take it?"

So the pink birds were called 'flamingo'. Not a name that meant anything to her but she could find out more later. "That is the dress," she confirmed. "It would look well on me at the Victory Ball." She fished a gold coin from her pouch, and tossed it to the Man; she had no local currency as yet but gold tended to be accepted anywhere.

"It shall be kept for you as you request, Mistress Elf," the merchant agreed. "Victory Ball? You are confident, then, that we shall defeat the Dark Lord?"

"Of course," she said. "I am here now." That might sound too boastful, she realised, and so she added "And Aragorn, and Legolas, Gimli, the Sons of Elrond, Éomer, and the valiant Riders of Rohan. We shall prevail, count on it. And then, as my people say, 'From victory to an inn'. There shall, indeed, be a Victory Ball."

"The dress will be yours, my lady," the merchant said, "and this coin shall be all the payment required." Cierre suspected that the gold coin was responsible for the upgrade from 'Mistress' to 'my lady'; hardly surprising, if gold had the same value in Gondor as it did in Rohan.

"Aragorn is your Captain?" the swordsman asked.

"He is," Cierre confirmed. "He led us to capture the Corsair fleet at Pelargir and then to the battle here. A truly great Captain." To emphasise her point she added the title that Aragorn had claimed at the Stone of Erech. "He is Isildur's Heir." Not that she had the remotest idea who Isildur was, or why Aragorn was his heir, but certainly the name had impressed Lord Angbor at the Fords of Linhir.

And the Sindarin speakers here were just as impressed. "Isildur's Heir!" the swordsman exclaimed, and his cry was echoed by the other Sindarin speakers. "In our hour of need, with the Steward dead and Lord Faramir deathly ill, Isildur's Heir comes to us beyond all hope."

"Oh, we healed Faramir," Cierre informed him. "Well, mainly it was Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond who did the healing, but I helped."

"The hands of the King are the hands of a Healer," the swordsman said in a low voice, sounding to her as if he was quoting. "This is marvellous news, my lady." A buzz of conversation ran through the crowd as those who spoke Sindarin translated to those who did not.

Cierre could feel blood from her arm wound trickling down and beginning to ooze under her left-hand Bracer of Dexterity. A glance downward showed that the outer surface of the bracer already was wet with blood. More mess to clean up and it would get worse until her wound was bound up. Gléowine was correct that it needed to be done, and soon, but she had wasted enough time here already.

"I must go," she announced. "Farewell." She joined the Rohirrim and walked with them out of the lane back to the main street. Behind her the Men of Gondor were calling out questions, most of which she couldn't have answered, and she made no response other than to repeat "Farewell."

She was more talkative once she was out on the street and accompanied only by the Men of Rohan. A couple of them had a grasp of Westron little, if any, better than hers but she understood them well enough. Heruwald's Westron was reasonably good and he was treating her with what seemed to be genuine friendship. Yes, she had killed his brother-in-law, and he had tried to get revenge by knocking her from the Deeping Wall in front of a horde of attacking Dunlendings, but it appeared he no longer held any grudge. And Gléowine not only spoke fluent Westron but, it turned out, even knew some Sindarin. The conversation, if a little mangled at times, was… comradely.

Not all of the topics they dealt with were pleasant. Cierre had heard that Théoden had been slain by the King of the Wraiths; she had not realised, however, that his guard of three hundred Riders had been almost annihilated. Only twenty-eight of the three hundred had survived, Cierre was told, and most of those were injured or suffering from the Black Breath. Háma the door-ward of Meduseld, who had been one of the few to treat Cierre with courtesy on her initial arrival at Edoras, was one of the dead.

Something else that had not occurred to her, although in hindsight she had had all the facts and had simply not put them together, was that Théoden's death made Éomer effectively King of Rohan. His accession to the Crown would have to be approved by something called a 'witenagemot' – some sort of council of elders, she gathered – before it became official but, as Éomer was the only surviving male of the line of Éorl, the Riders regarded it as a foregone conclusion.

"Why not Éowyn Queen?" Cierre asked. She had, of course, grown up in a matriarchal society and, even after sixteen years away from Menzoberranzan, the way the _rivvin_ blithely assumed that males took priority still seemed weird to her. "She is sister, same blood."

"It is not the custom in the Mark to have ruling queens," Gléowine replied, "and Éomer is proven on the battlefield. None shall gainsay his claim."

He knew his people much better than she did and undoubtedly was correct. And Cierre had nothing against Éomer, other than him having been somewhat condescending towards her when she had been having trouble with her obstreperous horse, but she really liked Éowyn a lot and thought she would make an excellent Queen of Rohan. But it wasn't something over which Cierre had any influence and she let the topic drop.

In the Third Circle they caught up with the Men of Lebennin who had been her original escort. It had registered on them, eventually, that Cierre was no longer tagging along behind them and they had begun to look for her. In the wrong Circle, as they'd been so slow to notice her absence, but she managed to refrain from snapping at them. Once they saw that she was wounded they were profuse with their apologies and offered, as the Rohirrim had done, to accompany her back to the Houses of Healing. And Cierre forced herself to smile, and declined their offer with as much courtesy as she could summon, and said that she just wanted to get back to the camp as soon as possible.

That was certainly no lie. By now she was wishing she'd asked Heruwald or Gléowine to bind up her bleeding arm; between that, and two separate gashes on her head, she was losing more blood than she had realised at first and it could do with attention. And she hurt. Her arms, her head, her back, her ribs, and her face. They really, really, fucking hurt.

At last she reached the vicinity of Aragorn's tents, said farewell to the Rohirrim and Men of Lebennin, and almost staggered into the one she shared with Gimli and Legolas. She was hoping that they would be asleep and she'd be able to wrap something around her arm, collapse into her bedroll, and go to sleep without bothering anyone. No such luck.

The interior of the tent was illuminated by the light-gem she had given Gimli. Legolas was reclining, resting in the semi-aware state known in Faerûn as Trancing, but Gimli was wide awake and busy. He sat cross-legged on the floor, running a whetstone over the blade of his axe, and he looked up as Cierre entered.

"Welcome back, lass, we've saved you some sausages," Gimli said, and then he noticed her injured state. He rose to his feet at once. "What has happened? Were you attacked?"

Legolas stirred and his eyes, already open, widened. "You are injured, Cierre."

"I had noticed," Cierre retorted.

"Surely no foes could have penetrated the City and remained unfought until this hour," said Legolas. "Did something occur akin to what happened at Edoras?"

"Yes," Cierre confirmed, "but with no evil Gríma behind it. Just townspeople who mistook me for a foe who had, as you say, 'penetrated the City and remained unfought until this hour'. Because, of course, an orc would have been standing peacefully looking at dresses in a shop window."

Gimli gave a short bark of laughter. "I trust you taught them better manners," he said.

"I did," Cierre confirmed, "and without needing to draw Heleg Naur. I seized a broomstick from one of those who attacked me and used it to defend myself. I am skilled with a short staff."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Legolas, "but from your injuries I would deduce that you were badly outnumbered. You must have none of your spells of healing remaining, I take it, or you would have used them on yourself already."

"I used the last on that bowman who took a Southron arrow in the shoulder," Cierre confirmed.

"And now you are in need of healing," said Legolas, "and neither Gimli nor myself have your magical powers nor Aragorn's training in the conventional healing arts. Still, we shall do our best to tend your hurts." He placed a hand on Cierre's chin and, gently but firmly, turned her head one way and then the other so that he could examine the two places on her head where blood had stained her hair. "Minor lacerations only, I would say. You did not lose consciousness?"

"If I had I would be dead," Cierre said.

"Then I think these can be left alone, for now, until you have rested and regained your spells," Legolas decided. "It is only the wound to your arm that needs attention."

"And nasty it is, too," said Gimli. "Well, we'd best get your armour and your shirt off so we can get a proper look… at… it…" His voice trailed away and his cheeks, where they could be seen through his beard, flamed scarlet.

Cierre laughed, her pain and weariness forgotten, and the last smouldering vestiges of the resentment she felt at the attack upon her dissipated. "You had forgotten that I am an Elf-_maid_, had you not, _aluri abbil_? I will keep them on, I think, for I wear nothing under the shirt." Gimli's cheeks managed to turn even redder and Cierre laughed again.

"We shall have to cut off your shirt-sleeve, then," said Legolas. "The sleeve is ruined anyway."

"And I have only one spare shirt with me," said Cierre, "but it cannot be helped." She unbuckled her wrist bracers and then extended her arm.

"I am surprised that Aragorn did not foresee the likelihood of the Men of Gondor mistaking you for a foe, if you went alone through Minas Tirith," Legolas remarked, as he cut away her sleeve with one of his white-handled knives.

"He did," Cierre said. "I left the Houses of Healing with a party of the Men of Lebennin, at _Jabbuk_ Aragorn's recommendation, and no harm would have come to me if I had stayed with them." She clenched her teeth, suppressing a wince, as Legolas dabbed away blood from the vicinity of the wound. "I saw a dress in a shop window, along a side lane, and wished to examine it further. I called to them, asking them to wait, but they did not hear. And, like a complete idiot, I decided that it would do no harm to turn aside for two minutes and I went into the lane by myself."

"I can guess the rest," Legolas said. He applied a pad of folded cloth to the cut on Cierre's arm and wound strips of cloth around the arm to hold it in place. "I hope you're not going to make a habit of being assaulted in each new place we visit."

"It's almost becoming a tradition," Cierre agreed, "but not one that I am eager to uphold. Thank you, _abbil_ Legolas, that will see me through until I have rested and regained my healing spells. Gimli, my _aluri abbil_, you said something about sausages?"

"Aye, lass, I saved some for you," Gimli said. "They were better hot but they're not bad cold. You could probably do with getting some food inside you."

"Indeed so," said Cierre. Now that she had time to think about it she realised that she was ravenously hungry. She devoured the cold sausages, washed down with Rohirric ale, and then settled herself down to sleep.

Some hours later she woke when someone entered the tent. Her hand went to a dagger, by reflex, but then she recognised Aragorn and relaxed. Her spells were back, she could tell, and so she must have been due to wake soon anyway.

"_Vendui, Jabbuk_," she greeted him. He didn't look happy; in fact he looked somewhat stern and, perhaps, disapproving. "I would guess, from your expression, that you have heard what happened to me after I departed from the Houses of Healing."

"Yes, Legolas told me," Aragorn confirmed. "I warned you."

"You did, _Jabbuk_, and I was foolish and did not take you seriously enough," Cierre said. "And now you will scold me. I deserve it, indeed, but please wait until after I have cast my healing spells."

"I'm not going to scold you, Cierre," Aragorn said. "You are well aware of your error and I am sure you will not be so careless again. And I am proud of you. You managed to extricate yourself from that situation without killing anyone."

"It would have been a poor way of repaying the debt I owed Boromir if I had slaughtered scores of the people of his city," Cierre said. "And I will try to be more careful in future."

"I'm sure you'll try," Aragorn said, a hint of a smile showing. "I'm just not so sure you'll succeed. I think it would be best if you stay close to me at all times whilst we are in Minas Tirith. We can tell everyone you're acting as my bodyguard, if you like, but really it will be to keep you out of trouble. Now cast your healing spells, Cierre, and then rest again. Tomorrow will be a busy day."

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The morning came after the day of battle and it was fair, with light clouds, and the wind turning westward. Legolas and Gimli rose early and Cierre woke, a little later, to the aroma of frying sausages.

And mushrooms!

Cierre rose in haste, cleansed herself of blood and grime as best she could with a severely limited amount of water, and changed into what clean and intact clothing she had remaining. Then she joined Gimli and Legolas at their little camp fire.

"If those mushrooms are for me," she said, "then both of you have won my eternal gratitude."

"Aye, they are all for you, lass," said Gimli. "We have had ours already. I would call you slug-a-bed but, after your experiences yester eve, you may be forgiven for being late to rise."

Cierre laughed and began to help herself to the sausages and the mushrooms. Legolas passed her a mug of steaming tea, which she accepted gratefully; she would have preferred coffee but she had neither seen nor heard of any since arriving in Middle Earth. Quite possibly the Southrons knew of coffee, and there may have been some in their packs, but she hadn't stumbled upon any whilst rummaging for arrows and there had been no opportunity to conduct a more in-depth search. It wasn't a high priority; mushrooms were of far greater importance to her.

"Where did you find the mushrooms, my friends?" she asked. "On this vast field, trodden and torn up by a myriad of hooves and feet, I would have thought a search for mushrooms futile."

"You have the hobbits to thank," Legolas replied. "They taught us the secrets of mushroom-hunting."

"And you learned them well," said Cierre. "I thank you."

She was just devouring the last of the sausages and mushrooms when Aragorn, accompanied by Gandalf and the two Sons of Elrond, arrived.

"I trust you are fully healed, Cierre?" Aragorn said.

"I am, _Jabbuk_," Cierre confirmed. "I have two Cure Light Wounds spells free to be used on the wounded."

"Keep them for now," Aragorn said. "They would make little difference to the wounded that remain and, knowing you, it could well be that you will need them yourself before the end of the day."

"I had thought the young hobbits had a gift for finding trouble," Gandalf put in, "but compared with you, Cierre, they are mere beginners."

"I was at fault, and ignored Aragorn's wise advice," Cierre admitted. "I should have known better."

"Indeed you should," said Aragorn. "We are going into the city now. If you want to come with us you must stay with us at all times."

"Except when I go to the privy, presumably," Cierre said, "which is something that would be much easier in the city than here, where I am the only female in an army of thousands of males."

Aragorn raised his eyes skyward, and shook his head. "Cierre, you are incorrigible," he said.

'Incorrigible' was not a word Cierre understood; her Sindarin was fluent but not totally comprehensive. She guessed that Aragorn was making a joke of some kind, or teasing her, and didn't bother to ask Elladan to translate. "Yes, I would like to go into the city again," she said, "and I will accept your conditions."

"I must caution you, we will be attending a Council of War," Aragorn said, "and it will be necessary for you to stand and watch, without taking part, unless you are asked to speak. Whereas Legolas and Gimli, as representatives of kingdoms that are fully involved in this war, will be at liberty to speak as they see fit. I hope you will not take this as a slight."

Cierre nodded. Speaking out of turn at a Drow council could get you impaled. "I understand, _Jabbuk_," she replied.

"That being said," Aragorn added, "I may well seek your opinion at some point and so, too, may Éomer. You proved at Helm's Deep that your ideas are as much to be valued as your skill with sword and bow."

Cierre dipped her head. "I was but an average student at Melee-Magthere. There are many of my people who could provide counsel much wiser and battle-plans more effective. The majority of them would be inclined to fight for the other side, alas, yet there are some who, were they not a world away, could have contributed much to your cause. I am no Battle-mistress but, if you request it, I shall do my best to fill that role."

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Piergeiron the Paladinson, Open Lord of Waterdeep, greeted the diminutive Drow and her companions as they were escorted into the council chamber.

"Welcome, Lady Iljrene," he said, a beaming smile coming to his face. He turned to the other members of the Council, and to the handful of adventurers who had been invited to take part in the discussion, and introduced the leader of the newcomers. "Lady Iljrene Ahbruyn is the Battle-mistress of the Promenade of Eilistraee," he said, "and the most dangerous sword-fighter that ever I saw."

A couple of those present raised their eyebrows. Iljrene was only four feet nine, and slender, and looked too frail to wield the bastard sword that was slung across her back. Had it been hung at her hip it would have scraped along the ground.

"I don't believe I know your companions," Lord Piergeiron prompted.

"Laelryne Hunszrin and Kebella Vandree," Iljrene said, in a high, childish, treble utterly incongruous in one declared to be a lethal fighter. "Laelryne is the most accomplished swordswoman, next to myself, of all the Protectors of the Song. Kebella is a Ranger, and a worshipper of Eilistraee, who comes not from the Promenade but from the city of Lith My'athar. We bring news of vital import to your city."

"Then let us hear it without delay," said Durnan the Wanderer, a former adventurer who owned the Yawning Portal inn. He was one of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep but was attending this meeting unmasked, in the role of a mere civilian consultant, so that his secret position remained unsuspected by the adventurers who were present and might well recognise him despite the mask.

"The original incursions into your city were at the instigation of the Valsharess, a Drow warlord who made herself mistress of a dozen cities of the Underdark and sought to extend her conquests to the surface world," Iljrene related. This was not news to the Council, who had been told as much by Prentice's colleagues Sharwyn and Daelan, but they awaited further disclosures with interest. "She had imprisoned Halaster, and taken control of Undermountain, and she sent an army to invest the Promenade. Her forces had no chance of breaking in but they blocked our exit and prevented us from sending aid to Lith My'athar. And then the beseigers withdrew, we knew not why, but we seized the opportunity and Qilué despatched Laelryne, with a small party, to Lith My'athar."

Iljrene's subordinate took up the tale. "I feared that Lith My'athar would have fallen, and that all I would be able to do would be to guide survivors to refuge in the Promenade," Laelryne said. She was taller than Iljrene but, at perhaps five feet one, she still seemed tiny to the humans. "To my astonishment, and delight, I found that Lith My'athar had not only withstood the offensive but had shattered the army of the Valsharess. Her power is broken and, indeed, we have been assured that she is dead."

"That is good news indeed," said Durnan, "but in that case why have the incursions of monsters into Waterdeep intensified rather than stopped? One might expect a few such, monsters displaced by the fighting and stragglers from the defeated army, but that is not what we have seen. Instead there was an absolute cessation of activity, just before Sharwyn and Daelan returned to inform us that Halaster had been freed from captivity, and then a period of calm. Suddenly a new wave of monsters and foemen appeared. Stray elements of a broken army would be dispirited, seeking easy loot, but surrendering or fleeing as soon as they encountered stiff resistance. These, on the contrary, have attacked with fanatical determination, slaying rather than pillaging, and fighting to the death. Or beyond, for the Undead among them number as many or more than the living."

"And what has happened to Prentice?" Sharwyn queried. "Halaster sent him to the Underdark, together with a Drow and a skilled Elf warrior who claimed to have come from another world, under a geas that he must slay the Valsharess. Does he yet live?"

It was the Ranger from Lith My'athar, Kebella, who answered. "To the best of our knowledge he lives still," she said. "We honour him greatly, for he played a significant part in the salvation of the city, and his companion Elladan Elrondion even more so. For it was Elladan who persuaded an army of Drow, followers of Vhaeraun, to come to our aid when hope seemed to be failing. And we trapped the army of the Valsharess between us, and her conscripts revolted, and her loyalists were all slain."

"Vhaeraunites and Eilistraeeans working together?" Lord Piergeiron remarked, his eyebrows climbing. "Remarkable."

Iljrene's top lip curled in something approaching a sneer but then she forced her face straight. "I would never have believed it either," she said. "In my experience Vhaeraun's followers are evil and treacherous. Never in a thousand years would I have thought to go to them for aid."

Kebella bridled. "They have behaved honourably and treated us with respect and courtesy," she said, "and you disrespect them with your unkind words."

"She is being courted by a Vhaeraun worshipper," Laelryne told Iljrene, "and I have met him and, indeed, he seems a most pleasant and civil fellow."

Iljrene pouted. "I apologise," she said. "I referred only to events of a decade ago. Our goddess has commanded that we treat the worshippers of Vhaeraun as friends and allies and, of course, I shall obey."

"What about Prentice?" Sharwyn pressed, sounding impatient at the digression.

"And the monster attacks on Waterdeep," Durnan added.

"My apologies," said Kebella. "At the very moment of our triumph Prentice, and Elladan, and our own Nathyrra and Valen, were snatched away from Lith My'athar by magic. We have learned that they were transported to the throne-room of the Valsharess and there they slew her. That, however, was not the end of the troubles but brought a new, and more deadly, threat. The Valsharess had summoned Mephistopheles, the Arch-devil, and bound him to her service. It was his power that enabled her to conquer so many cities in such short a time."

"And with her death he was freed," Piergeiron guessed.

"Qilué believes he was never truly bound," Iljrene said, "and that the Valsharess was tricked into summoning him in order that he might come to Faerûn in pursuit of his own ends. That is speculation, however, and all that we know for certain is that he is here. And it seems that he intends to make this world part of his hellish domain."

"Starting with Waterdeep, presumably," said Piergeiron. "Then the current wave of attacks upon the city are at the instigation of Mephistopheles."

"That is so," said Laelryne. "He has animated the dead from Undermountain and those Undead make up the bulk of his forces. Some remnants of the Valsharess' army have entered his service willingly, we believe, but more have been enthralled and obey him against their wills."

"So all those we slew will have to be killed all over again," Sharwyn said. She shook her head. "That's… depressing."

"No doubt this present wave of incursions into Waterdeep is intended to whittle away at us, weakening our defences little by little, before Mephistopheles assaults us in person," said Lord Piergeiron. "He would not care if his enthralled servants are slain as long as they do us some damage first."

"And if we are overrun," said Durnan, "those of us who survive will be enthralled also, and the fallen will join his armies as Undead." He turned his attention back to Iljrene. "You are suffering similar attacks, I take it?"

The tiny Drow girl shook her head. "We are protected, for now," she said. "Lady Qilué, and the Seer in Lith My'athar, have set protective wards in place, reinforced by the power of our Dark Maiden and… her brother. Mephistopheles, for all his might, cannot break through these divine barriers. His Undead are likewise barred and those of the enthralled who pass the wards are freed of the thrall. And the few willing servants of Mephistopheles who break through are nothing more than an irritant."

"They're useful for target practice," said Kebella. She grinned. "We hit a Beholder with five hundred crossbow bolts in a single volley. There wasn't even enough left of it to provide spell components."

One of the Masked Lords, who had been silent up to this point, spoke up. "Can your Lady Priestesses ward Waterdeep in like fashion?"

Iljrene shook her head again. "Alas, no, my lord," she replied. "Your city is vastly too large. Also the Promenade has always been a place sacred to Eilistraee and her power, and that of Qilué her Chosen, is greatest there."

"Lith My'athar now has a similar status," Laelryne added, "and there the Seer can draw upon the powers of both Eilistraee and Vhaeraun. In Waterdeep, however, they could be of little help."

"What of the priests and priestesses of the city?" the Masked Lord asked. "Are there any who could set in place wards of equal efficacy?"

Piergeiron pursed his lips. "None of the priests resident in the city can match the power of Qilué Veladorn," he said. "Perhaps Sunrise Lord Ghentilara would be able to ward the Spires of the Morning to an equal extent, and one or two of the other High Priests might be able to shield their own temples, but warding the city as a whole would be far beyond their abilities."

"What of the adventuring companies, Durnan?" asked the Masked Lord.

"Until today the highest-ranked adventuring cleric staying at the Yawning Portal was Linu La'Neral," said Durnan, "and, although she is a gifted healer, I would assess her skills as far short of those necessary to set wards that could withstand Dread Mephistopheles. There is, though, a priestess of Auril who arrived mere hours ago. She has made no declaration of her status but Lady Deep Winter came to the inn and paid her homage. The newcomer, then, must be of high rank indeed. And she… radiates power. The very air around her carries a bitter chill. It is possible that she could replicate Qilué's wards – but whether a priestess of the Frostmaiden would do so, at our request, is another matter."

"We can but ask," said Piergeiron. "I shall accompany you to the Yawning Portal once this meeting concludes."

Daelan had been silent thus far, a massive but immobile brooding presence, but now he spoke. "Prentice," he said, pointedly.

"Yes," Sharwyn addressed Kebella, "complete your account of Prentice's fate. You told us he had been snatched away from your city, and transported to the domain of the Valsharess, but not what happened after he slew her and Mephistopheles was set free."

"Mephistopheles took him captive," Kebella admitted. "This was revealed to the Seer when she prayed to our Lady Silverhair for knowledge of his fate. He, and his companions from the Seer's retinue, were banished to the realm of Cania by Mephistopheles. Elladan, however, was sent back to his own world by the magic of Halaster."

"Cania? But that is a realm of the dead," Sharwyn said. She ignored the reference to Elladan; she had met him only briefly and, although she had taken a liking to him and had been impressed by his ability as a warrior, his fate was of far less importance to her than was that of her companion and friend, at whose side she had fought through the mazes of Undermountain, and who had saved her life more than once. "We can't leave Prentice there. We have to rescue him!"

"No easy task," said Kebella, "but if volunteers are needed for such a rescue mission it will not be hard to find them. There are many in Lith My'athar who would be eager to aid Prentice, even at the peril of their lives, and you can count me in that number. We even have one amongst us who has visited Cania and lived. Our smith, Rizolvir, went there once and returned alive. How useful this may be I know not, for he did not travel there and back again under his own power, but was transported by…" She paused, her eyes widened, and her lips formed into a smile. "By a High Priestess of Auril," she resumed. "Perhaps this newly-arrived priestess could be the answer."

"Let us hope so," said Sharwyn. "I'll have to have a word with this priestess."

"What of Halaster?" asked one of the Masked Lords. "What is the Wizard of Undermountain doing about the entry of Mephistopheles into his domain?"

"We believe he is in hiding," said Laelryne. "Mephistopheles seems to be searching for him but, thus far, without success."

"That would explain why the Arch-devil has not yet made any open assault upon Waterdeep," said Piergeiron. "Long may it continue."

Sharwyn, struck by a passing thought, addressed Kebella. "Did Cierre of Luruar reach your city?" she asked. "She cut a swathe through Undermountain, leaving a trail of corpses behind her, and then just… vanished. We saw no further signs of her passage yet never found her body. I suspect she found a passage down into the Underdark before we did."

Kebella's brow furrowed. "No surfacers reached Lith My'athar before Prentice and Elladan," she said. "I know nothing… unless… was this 'Cierre' a Drow?"

Sharwyn grimaced. She guessed this to mean that the Drow of Lith My'athar had found an unidentified body. "She was," she replied. "Exceptionally tall by the standards of your people, taller than me by a couple of inches, and she had unusual amber eyes."

"I never saw her," said Kebella, "but Elladan mentioned that a Drow adventurer from our world had been transported into his. I would guess this to be Cierre. It was having met her, he said, that gave him a good opinion of Drow and meant that he behaved courteously and fairly even to those who were, at that time, worshippers of Lolth."

"At that time?" Piergeiron queried.

"The former Lolthites have converted to the worship of Eilistraee and Vhaeraun," Kebella said, "praise be to the Dark Maiden. And much of the credit must go to Elladan Elrondion, who healed the rift between Matron Mother Myrune and Princess Zessyr, and thus laid the ground for their conversion."

"It is strange to think that Cierre of Luruar is now, effectively, the ambassador of Faerûn to this… Elladan's world," Sharwyn mused. "She seemed to me to be somewhat taciturn, and not interested in making friends, although never impolite or hostile. Still, I did not see at her best. Most of the time that I knew her was on the ship from Neverwinter and she was horribly seasick for the whole journey. And it would appear that she must have impressed Elladan."

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Cierre had expected that she would stand silently, as she had been bidden, taking no part in the discussions of the council. Instead she found herself called upon to answer questions almost at once. At the same time questions were being asked of Aragorn, and of the Sons of Elrond, and of Éomer; the resulting noise was such that it was impossible to follow proceedings until Gandalf stood and banged his staff upon the floor.

"Gentlemen, please!" he said, his voice loud and commanding. "We must have proper order if we are to accomplish anything." The hubbub quietened. "I suggest," Gandalf went on, "that we first deal with the lesser matters, so that we can devote our full attention to the weightier. Perhaps we could start with Prince Erchirion?"

Cierre's previous sight of the prince had been as he lay in the Houses of Healing, injured and semi-conscious, but even then she had noted that he was handsome. Now that he was awake, and in full command of his faculties, she thought him perhaps the most attractive _rivvil_ she had ever seen.

"This may seem a lesser matter compared with the governance of the city, and the conduct of this war," said Erchirion, "but it is important enough to me." He flexed the fingers of his right hand. "I fell upon the field of battle, my arm severed by the jaws of the fell winged beast, and yet I awoke to find it… restored. At first I could not believe it, and thought that I had but dreamt that it had been lost, but the Healers confirmed that, indeed, I had lost my arm at the elbow. And it is not quite the same as it was, being no longer tanned by the sun, so that there is now a boundary at the joint where darkened skin gives way to pale. The calluses upon my hands, from use of the sword, are there no longer. It is a… miracle the like of which I have never heard. The Warden of the Houses informs me that it is you, Aragorn son of Arathorn, who healed me in such astounding fashion. And you brought forth my sister from the deathly sleep of the Black Breath."

"And I, too, have you to thank for my recovery," said Faramir, "as have many others within the Halls." He gazed into Aragorn's eyes, reinforcing Cierre's opinion that Faramir was as _do'ch_ as Pharaun Mizzrym, and continued, "The hands of the King are the hands of a healer, or so it is said, but what you have achieved is beyond anything I have heard even in legend. From whence comes such ability? For it seems to me almost… magical."

Aragorn smiled. "And indeed it is, at least in part," he said. "I was trained in the healing arts by Elrond Half-Elven, Lord of Imladris, accounted the greatest healer of this Age. Yet nothing I learned could have restored a severed arm were it not for the magical healing draughts made by Cierre's people."

Those who knew Cierre's name turned to look at her. Erchirion looked blank for a moment before following the gazes of the others and realising to whom Aragorn referred. His brother Amrothos, and a Gondorian lord almost as tall as Aragorn, reacted in the same fashion.

"I think it is time to introduce Cierre of Luruar, and for her to tell you of her people," Aragorn said, "for it is plain to see that you have questions that only she can answer."

"Indeed," said Erchirion, "for never have I heard, even in tales and legends, of any Elves of her… colour. And those peoples who do share her colouration have, in our previous experience, always been creatures of the Enemy – although obviously that is not the case with this lady."

"That was the assumption many of the Rohirrim made, when Cierre first came to us," Éomer put in. "We have never been so wrong."

"I will not deny that all too many of my people, the Drow, are inclined towards evil," Cierre said. "It was a war-band of evil Drow, too numerous for me to fight, who pursued me and drove me into this… land." For once everyone around her spoke Sindarin, save perhaps for Éothain and Marshall of the Mark Elfhelm, and she was able to express herself fluently and concisely. She did not mention that she had come from a whole different world, for the sake of brevity and simplicity, and skipped straight to her meeting with Aragorn at Amon Hen. Once she came to her fight with the orcs that had felled Boromir she went into more detail, as Faramir was there, and she wanted to explain the debt she felt she owed his brother.

"I did not see the archer until he loosed, and the arrow pierced my leg, and I fell," she related. "The orcs seized my arms, and one raised his sword to impale me, and there was nothing I could do to save myself. Then the orc fell dead, and I saw that Boromir had thrown a knife to slay it, even though he was wounded unto death with three arrows deep in his chest. His deed saved my life. Aragorn arrived, at that moment, and slew the last of the orcs, and we went to tend to Boromir, but his wounds were too severe and there was nothing that we could do. The dead orcs lay around him in heaps, for he had slain a full score before he fell, and I could tell that he was a great warrior indeed. He could speak few words, before the breath left him, but he asked me to go to Minas Tirith to help defend it from the foe. I had been too late to save him, and he had saved me, and so I felt myself bound to fulfil his dying request. And here I am."

"What of those from whom you fled?" asked Erchirion. "Do they pose a threat to Gondor?"

Cierre's mouth formed into a tight line. "No longer," she said. "They followed me and laid an ambush for us on the Paths of the Dead. Eleven of our Company died at their hands before we slew the last of them."

"But might others come in their wake?" Erchirion pressed.

"My lord Erchirion, I can assure you that will not happen," Elladan stated. "She who sent them is dead; I slew her myself. The full tale is too long for this meeting, although if you wish I will recount it to you at another time, but I have visited that land and it no longer poses any threat. It was from there that I brought the potion that saved your arm. The journey is too… far, alas, for there to be any possibility of me returning there to obtain more such potions. And all that I brought have now been used."

"A pity, for there are many wounded," said the tall lord, "although I am given to understand that the healers from the North have restored to health many who otherwise might have died, or lain long abed, and the situation is far better than it might have been. We have much for which we can be thankful, but much to mourn also."

"True, Lord Húrin," said Prince Erchirion. "Of the seven hundred we brought from Dol Amroth only three hundred and twenty remain alive, and my father was not the only great lord to fall."

The discussion then turned to the casualties of the battle. Many had fallen, to the grief of those remaining, but the death toll was far lighter than it might have been when the numbers of the foe had been so great. The disparity was, in Cierre's opinion, due to the forces of Sauron having been prepared for the wrong kind of battle. The Rohirrim had struck them from behind, catching them in entirely the wrong formations to withstand a massive cavalry charge, and when at last they had been able to reorganise they had been caught from behind once again, this time by those Aragorn had brought on the ships seized from the Corsairs. From then on the destruction of Sauron's host had been inevitable.

The commanders gathered for this council knew all this as well, or better, than Cierre and she had nothing additional to contribute. She did not find it hard to remain silent and merely to listen. Then they moved on to consider the further prosecution of the war.

For the first time Cierre learned that the two Hobbits she had not met, Frodo and Sam, were not on a mission to steal an artefact from Sauron. In fact Frodo was already in possession of that artefact, a ring, and his task was to enter the realm of Mordor in secret, make his way to the volcano in which the Ring had been forged, and there to destroy it.

This was a concept familiar to Cierre. The description of the Ring reminded her very much of the crystal shard Crenshinibon, which had turned a village conjuror into an invincible warlord and caused great devastation in the lands of Icewind Dale, and also of the dreaded Crown of Horns. Destroying the Ring seemed to her to be the only sensible course of action and it didn't surprise her at all to hear that there was only one place it could be destroyed; that was fairly standard for powerful artefacts. It had taken many years before anyone discovered how to destroy Crenshinibon, she had heard, and the people of Middle Earth were lucky that the Ring could be destroyed in such a simple fashion. If you could call getting to a volcano right in the heart of the enemy's country, through lands surrounded by fortifications and swarming with orcs, simple.

The plan put forward by Aragorn and Gandalf, to march on Mordor with the aim of keeping Sauron distracted from the Hobbits' stealthy entrance, seemed almost suicidal to some of the lords at the meeting. Not to Cierre; when your army has just destroyed an enemy host ten times its size, and not merely defeated it but annihilated it utterly, you needed to ride that wave of success and go on the attack. No-one asked her opinion but they made what she regarded as the right decision anyway.

It appeared that the commander of Sauron's army had not been as incompetent as she had at first thought. A powerful blocking force, twenty to thirty thousand strong, had been positioned on the route from Rohan to Gondor. If the Rohirrim had had to fight their way through then the whole battle might have gone very differently; luckily, though, they had found a way to bypass the opposing division. That meant, however, that there remained a formidable body that posed a threat to Minas Tirith and had to be taken into consideration when planning the make-up of the expeditionary force. Consequently a strong garrison would have to be left behind and only nine thousand – 'scarcely as many as the vanguard of the army of Gondor in the days of its power', as Erchirion put it – would set off for Mordor in two days' time.

And then Faramir brought Cierre into the conversation once more.

"If I am to remain behind in charge of the City," he said, "perhaps I could offer the hospitality of my home to the Lady Cierre." He inclined his head toward her. "Or, my lady, you could stay with my cousin Lothíriel, in the town residence of the Princes of Dol Amroth, and you would be company for each other."

"What?" exclaimed Éomer. "You would have Cierre stay behind?"

Faramir's brow creased. "Of course," he said. "Here in the City we can give her safe shelter. A battle is no place for a maiden."

Éomer broke into open laughter, as did Gimli, and Marshall Elfhelm – who indeed must have understood Sindarin – chuckled. Elfhelm spoke briefly to Éothain in Rohirric and he, too, began to laugh. Aragorn grinned and even Legolas and the two Sons of Elrond could not keep their faces completely straight. Gandalf's bushy eyebrows climbed high, his eyes twinkled, and a broad smile came to his face.

"Tell that to my sister," Éomer said, "or to the division of the Éorlingas that has adopted Cierre's battle-cry as their own."

"You know not of what you speak, Lord Faramir," said Gimli, "for that is as sensible a suggestion as saying that I should go into battle without my axe, lest I dull the edge."

The crease between Faramir's brows deepened. "I know that the Rohirrim have women called Shield-maidens who are trained in the arts of combat, but surely that is only for the defence of their homes at the direst need," he said. "And I have not heard of Elf-maidens going to war."

"It would seem accounts of the deeds of Tauriel in the Battle of the Five Armies have not reached as far as Gondor," said Legolas.

"Few outside Imladris have heard of Andriel," Elrohir added, "but none who know of her would think to exclude her from a battle."

"Lord Faramir," said Aragorn, "Cierre gave only a brief account of her meeting with Boromir. What she did not mention was that she had slain eight of the orcs herself, and crippled two more, before the arrow struck her and your brother saved her life. If not for that stroke of ill fortune she would have slain them all without needing assistance. And Éomer can testify to her deeds at Helm's Deep."

"To tell of them all would take too long," said Éomer. "Suffice it to say that she slew a great number of the foe, and taught the Dunlendings to fear her above all, and saved the lives of many Riders. My uncle deemed her, and her comrades Legolas and Gimli, to be each the equal of a full éored."

"But… she is a maid, and slender," said Faramir.

"Yet her strength is as great as mine, if not greater," said Éomer.

"Lord Faramir," said Cierre, "I thank you for your well-intentioned offer. At another time I would be glad to make further acquaintance with your fair cousin, who is a most gracious lady and has performed a deed the match of any, but I must decline. My place is on the field of battle, alongside my friends and comrades, and the Riders of Rohan who have taken me into their hearts and honoured me greatly by so doing."

Éomer beamed at her, and Aragorn gave her an approving smile. Courteous speech was not one of Cierre's skills but she had considered her reply carefully and, it seemed, she had done well.

"If you insist, Lady Cierre," Faramir said, sounding unconvinced. It was apparent that the matter was settled, at least to the satisfaction of everyone else, and the discussion returned to the march to Mordor.

"There is one consideration as yet unexamined," said Lord Húrin, once the make-up of the expeditionary force had been settled, "and it may be the most important matter of all. I speak, of course, of the Kingship."

Most of those in the room turned their eyes toward Aragorn. Cierre was the last, for she did not understand the relevance, and reacted only to seeing the gazes of others so directed.

Aragorn frowned. "I had not thought to put forward my claim at this time," he said. "Rather had I intended to wait until Sauron was overthrown. I would not risk being the cause of dissension within Gondor, in such a crisis, and I might yet fall in battle rendering the whole issue moot."

"If not dissension, there shall at least be rumour and confusion," said Húrin, "for already word spreads through the City that the Heir of Isildur has returned. Many saw the banner of the Kings raised above the ships of the Black Fleet and flying on the battlefield. Those who came on the ships have spread the word of the Army of the Dead. Also," and now he stared directly at Cierre, "I have heard that the merchants in the Fourth Circle are telling all who will listen that a Princess of the Elves appeared to them, and proclaimed that Isildur's Heir had come, and that he had healed Faramir, and she promised victory over Sauron with the assurance of one who came as a messenger from the Valar."

Aragorn shook his head. "Oh, Cierre," he said, chidingly.

"I said nothing that was not true, _Jabbuk_," she responded, "and named you as Isildur's Heir only because I had heard Lord Angbor do so. And I made no claim to be a princess. Only the heir to the First House may use that title and House Faen Tlabbar is but the Third of Menzoberranzan. And, although I am daughter to the Matron Mother, I am not the eldest."

"These folk seem to have a fondness for bestowing such titles upon members of races other than Men," Gimli commented. "First Pippin becomes Prince of the Halflings, now you are a Princess of the Elves – next they will dub me Prince of the Dwarves. But no doubt Legolas, the only real prince amongst us, will be overlooked."

Legolas allowed himself a hint of a smile. "I suspect you have the right of it, friend Gimli," he said.

"In the Houses of Healing, also, many talk of the return of the Heir of Isildur," Faramir said to Aragorn, "especially those whom you brought forth from the dark dreams of the Black Breath. Mistress Ioreth has recited, innumerable times, a rhyme about the healing powers of _athelas_ in the hands of the King. And Peregrin Took, although he has been much more discreet than the Lady Cierre, has not been entirely close-mouthed. No, the cat is well and truly out of the bag."

"And has leapt up onto the banqueting table in full sight of all," added Gandalf. "In truth, Aragorn, there is little point in refraining from announcing your identity. It may be the best course for other reasons, too, for to proclaim openly the return of the King will give Sauron pause and inspire him even more to fix his Eye in this direction."

"Yet the restoration of the Kingship is too great a matter to be decided upon the basis only of a few signs, and the gossip of the townsfolk," said Lord Húrin. "The lineage of the Lord Aragorn must be established before his claim can be proven."

"I am descended, in direct line, both from Isildur and from Anárion through Arvedui and Firiel," Aragorn declared, and he recited a long list of names that meant nothing to Cierre. "The Roll of the Kings of Arnor is held in Imladris, of course, and I could not bring it with me on our long and arduous journey. The Sons of Elrond, however, can bear witness to my identity and my lineage. And there is this." He put a hand to his neck, pulled out a chain that had been hidden under his clothing, and removed from it a ring of silver set with green jewels. "The Ring of Barahir," he announced, setting the ring down on the table, "heirloom of my House, given to me when I attained my majority."

Those around the table seemed to treat this ring as a physical proof of Aragorn's claim. Cierre, who wore two rings taken from fallen foes and had another in her belt pouch, regarded possession of the ring as being proof of nothing. She wasn't going to point this out, of course, as she was a loyal supporter of Aragorn in all things and was quite happy for any potential opposition to overlook the flaw in the evidence.

"I acknowledge Aragorn as the true King of Gondor and Arnor," said Faramir. "I was told by Frodo that Boromir also had recognised the right of his claim. And it is my belief that my father, although he was opposed adamantly to the restoration of the Kingship, yet did not doubt that Aragorn was Isildur's Heir. I am the only other candidate for the rule of Gondor and, as Aragorn has my unstinting support, there is no reason not to proclaim him King."

"Yet there may still be those who see advantage for themselves in fermenting opposition," said Húrin, "and agents of the Enemy could well seize the opportunity to promote strife."

"Then we should remove that opportunity," said Erchirion, "by a gesture that will prove that all the potential ruling Houses of Gondor are united. I propose that we announce the betrothal of Aragorn to my sister, and cousin to Faramir, Lothíriel."


End file.
